"The Black Throne…"
In a hidden chamber deep within the underhive tunnels, Eden received data from the Inquisition's Forbidden Archives concerning the Black Throne.
That construct had originated from a secret pact between the Adeptus Mechanicus and the Drukhari.
At the time, in desperation to repair the gradually collapsing Golden Throne, the Mechanicus had summoned the Haemonculi masters of Commorragh.
The High Lords approved the plan, believing alien knowledge might restore that most sacred of artifacts.
The cost of this bargain was staggering: one Forge World, eight tithe-grade XI settlements, and tens of billions of souls.
All of these were to be stripped of defense and delivered into Drukhari hands.
The Imperium deemed the sacrifice worthwhile—for the Golden Throne was humanity's lifeline, and should it fail, the catastrophe would be beyond reckoning.
"Typical of the Imperium," Eden muttered, brows furrowed, while outside the muffled sound of search patrols echoed faintly.
Once the pact was sealed, the Mechanicus and the Haemonculi Covens began their work, studying the Golden Throne and attempting repairs.
But the deal spiraled out of control.
For the Drukhari, having touched the Throne, secretly retained fragments of its secrets—scheming to build their own version.
Thus was born the design of the so-called Black Throne.
The Drukhari intended to use the Black Throne to repel the Chaos incursions and dimensional instability that had plagued Commorragh since the Cicatrix Maledictum.
But like the Golden Throne, it required a powerful psyker to operate.
The Drukhari had none.
So their answer was to fashion a "new Emperor" for themselves. The Haemonculi had siphoned dried fluids from corroded pipes, and flecks of bloodstains left upon the machinery of the Golden Throne.
These were fragments of the Emperor's very gene-matter.
With them, they sought to create a twisted clone of the Emperor to enthrone upon the Black Throne.
Eventually, the Inquisition and the Adeptus Custodes intervened, reclaiming the stolen gene-samples, razing every Drukhari facility involved, and executing the collaborators.
The alliance with the Drukhari ended.
"Yet it seems," Eden thought grimly, "that the Drukhari never abandoned their Black Throne project. They may even still be cultivating Emperor-clones."
The thought weighed heavily. He did not doubt the Haemonculi's grotesque genius—they were unrivalled in fleshcraft and resurrection.
What concerned him was what such a clone would be.
More terrifying still: such a body, corrupted mockery of the Emperor, could become both the ultimate weapon of the Drukhari and a prize ripe for the Dark Gods.
A vessel for corruption in the image of the Emperor himself—such a horror would splinter the Imperium's faith, and rally heretics, traitors, and apostates beneath it.
Eden shuddered at the thought, yet felt relief that he had uncovered the secret. If left unchecked until success, the catastrophe would be immeasurable.
The problem was—where was the Black Throne, and where were these clones kept? He had no clue.
But he knew this: such a construct would be guarded as jealously as the Golden Throne itself.
Perhaps only once he held Commorragh in his grasp could he scour its depths and claim it.
The desire to seize the Dark City grew fiercer within him.
With the Black Throne and Emperor-clone secured, perhaps he could even glean the knowledge to stabilize the failing Golden Throne of Terra.
For even that relic was nothing less than a death clock for the Imperium.
When the patrols outside finally dispersed, Eden, Ilyss, and their companions shifted safehouses once more.
They needed to make contact with the cabals of the Redemption Satellite District, spreading their influence deeper within Commorragh.
The rebellion of the noble Archons had already collapsed—he could inherit their remnants, absorbing shattered warbands into his cause.
He was certain: this city had more than enough who loathed the Supreme Overlord's blood-soaked tyranny.
They merely needed their fear broken.
And he would be the one to ignite the revolt.
...
The Spire Inverted – The Supreme Throne Hall
Fetid, chaotic light poured through high windows, painting everything in nauseating colors.
From the vaulted ceiling dangled a forest of iron chains. Upon them, flayed bodies hung—many still twitching in silent agony.
No screams could escape their butchered throats.
This was the fate of the defiant—to spend centuries dying, soul slowly bled away into the hunger of She Who Thirsts.
"Ngghhh!!"
Archon Marlac was among them, suspended, thrashing desperately.
After defiling the Supreme Overlord's favored consort, he had not fled. Instead he confessed openly, offering all his wealth in hope of mercy.
None came.
Bloodshot eyes stared hollowly at the grotesque court.
Below, the Archons of Commorragh stood in uneasy silence, hearts pounding as the chains clinked and groaned above them.
Warriors in sable armor filed into the chamber—the elite of the Kabal of the Black Heart.
Then came courtiers, sycophants, and playthings, crowding the hall.
Knives scraped against saws, filling the air with shrieking "music."
Slaves arranged themselves, chanting hymns to herald their master's arrival.
As the dirge reached its peak, bodies fell screaming upon racks and spikes, their tormented souls offered as libation.
At last the throne descended—an ugly construct of blades and jagged obsidian angles.
And upon it sat the Supreme Overlord of Commorragh himself—Asdrubael Vect.
From his seat he gazed across his cowering Archons. None dared to meet his eyes.
Vect's body, ancient beyond ten millennia, bore the facade of youth—smooth, pale skin unlined by age.
But in his abyssal eyes burned cruelty and cunning, utterly at odds with his outward form.
The Archons forced themselves to stand tall under his gaze, for to flinch was to die.
"You are always so stiff," Vect hissed, his lips curling in mock amusement. "Why not smile?"
Terror rippled across the hall. None knew whether he spoke truth or jest, for the Overlord delighted in contradiction.
Some Archons dared force smiles. They were rewarded only with colder stares, and the knowledge their mistake was marked.
Fortunately, Vect was not yet in the mood for slaughter.
His voice, serpentine, filled the hall:
"My wretched, beautiful Dark City… why is it that so many plot to tear it apart?"
None replied.
Vect paced the dais, staff in hand, speaking as if to himself:
"Do they seek to destroy the city itself… or to defy its master?"
He halted before a figure hung inverted, drenched in blood.
It was the day's prize—a traitor: Archon Helarakh, one of the nobles who had dared rise against him.
Their insurrection had sparked Commorragh's great schism. They had even attempted to resurrect Vect's greatest ancient rival—Lord El'Uriaq—to lead them.
But their ritual was tainted by Chaos, its failure sealing their doom.
Now, dead or captured, the conspirators were finished.
Helarakh, stripped of voice and flesh, was reduced to a warning.
Vect idly plucked a strip of skin from the body and sneered:
"These punishments are far too slight for the chaos you sowed—especially for daring to fracture the unity of Commorragh."
Unity, of course, meant absolute submission. Even those loyal often died at his whim.
Helarakh's eyes blazed with agony and hatred, yet voiceless, he could do no more than glare.
And the other Archons, seeing him, dared not think of defiance—only of seizing each other's throats in their endless rivalries.
Perhaps that was precisely Vect's design: rule secured through perpetual division.
He turned his gaze across them all, then recounted his "great deeds":
"I am the one who cares most for Commorragh. In the Fall I gathered the survivors and brought them here.
And now there are those who would undo it all—who seek to split us apart. That I shall never forgive."
Seating himself upon the barbed throne once more, he declared:
"I have called you here to end the Great Schism of Commorragh.
Every traitor shall meet Helarakh's fate.
And you—shall bear the burden."
With that, the Supreme Overlord commanded: all kabals were to hunt down intruders from beyond the veil, root out daemonic possessions, and destroy every last traitor.
This heralded another round of bloodshed.
The Archons of the kabals received the Supreme Overlord's decree and departed the throne hall in silence.
Each sank into their own thoughts, all the while watching one another, especially their rivals.
All of them weighed how best to feed competitors to the invaders and daemonic entities ravaging Commorragh.
Everyone was a potential traitor. And none would squander such a chance to settle old grudges or eliminate hated enemies.
On their way to their ships, the Archons began to splinter into factions, selecting their targets and preparing their moves.
Of course, they also had to tend to the infestations within their own territories—dealing with invading daemons and hunting down suspected traitors.
"Once the Black Throne and that body are complete," Vect mused to himself upon his seat, "there will be none left who can ever challenge my rule…"
Though few dared oppose him openly, the nobles' betrayal and the Great Schism had blemished his authority.
It was a dangerous sign.
And Vect—once a slave—never ignored danger.
He gazed out through a vast viewing window, where the expanse of Commorragh stretched before him. Each sector was the size of a world.
In the endless dark, he could see jagged violet scars.
Signs of Warp incursions.
Many zones had cracked, spilling daemons into the city. Orks and Tyranids too had crawled in, sowing chaos.
Still, the outbreaks were contained, and the Dark City's core endured in order.
But Vect harbored a secret known to none: these tears, many of them, had been deliberately provoked by him.
For only an external threat could force unity.
Only fear could redirect his people's hatred and attention away from himself.
Now that the noble rebels were destroyed, it was time to cleanse these "external threats" as well.
Balance, struck by his hand.
Once the Archons culled the daemonic infestations, and after another cycle of internecine slaughter drained their strength—stability would return.
Vect leaned upon his chin once more, resuming his languid pose.
His taloned fingers brushed the hovering parchment-sheets that chronicled plots upon plots.
One plan detailed a strike against the Saviour's Webway Domain—dark engines primed to summon tides of daemons.
Another listed schemes of raids and subterfuge against the Imperium and their Asuryani kin.
And then he paused—at a name new to him: the Redemption Satellite District.
Some remote satellite, yet lately its whispers echoed throughout Commorragh. Perhaps worth his attention.
He gave the order:
The Black Heart's spies were to gather everything on this so-called district.
Vect suspected it hid some treasure. And no place was beyond the Supreme Overlord's plunder.
Especially the fringes.
Every border realm that defied him had already been annihilated—whether by apocalyptic relics or Warp rifts.
When the last reports were read, Vect summoned his concubines to amuse him. And there he heard a tale—concerning Lady Beda.
Every offender had been punished, save one nameless rat, still hiding. A slippery creature.
Vect smirked.
That one would be found.
Meanwhile, in a tavern cellar elsewhere—
"Lady Maris, we must act before the chaos dies down, to spread our influence while the moment lasts," Eden said, facing the Archoness of the Serpent Kabal.
Maris was a recent ally of the Redemption Satellite District—once one of Commorragh's hunted insurgent forces.
Before founding her own cabal, she had been one of Vect's consorts, famed for her keen intellect.
But her wit had soon wearied the Overlord, and he had cast her out of his court.
For over a millennium she had survived his assassins, forging secret ties with the Harlequins of the Laughing God.
In the shadowed Webway she had built hideouts and poison-forges.
When the Great Schism tore Commorragh, she had returned, seeking alliance with the nobles—but was spurned.
Who would trust the discarded lover of the Supreme Overlord?
Through Guilliman's channels, Eden had reached Ivraini, and through her the Harlequins, and at last to Maris herself.
He had promised her vengeance upon Vect.
Now they stood united, preparing to plunge Commorragh into storm.
Though Eden did not wholly trust her.
For all he knew, she could be part of some centuries-old trap—a lure baited by Vect himself, waiting for the perfect moment to betray every rebel in one stroke.
Maris's hands were still bloodied as she drank down a vial of high-grade soul elixir, savoring it.
"Scion of Asurmen," she purred, "tell me—why is the soul-essence you harvest so intoxicating?"
"That's a secret. Perhaps someday. But not until Vect is dealt with," Eden replied evenly.
"Very well. From now on, all my agents in Commorragh are yours to command," she offered with a sultry glance.
"You really won't consider my assassination plan? Or a massed strike?"
"That's far too old-fashioned," Eden shook his head.
"We need to break Vect's authority. When the time is right, others will strike the blow. He'll have nowhere to hide."
"For now, what we need is a message.
The Scion of Asurmen has come to Commorragh. He stands for three things: fairness, fairness, and—Emperor-damned fairness!"
"That's one thing," Maris teased.
"Close enough," Eden muttered, loading his dark-matter pistol.
"People must know—Commorragh and the Redemption District belong to all. Wealth enough for everyone.
Not endless slaughter for scraps.
Vect alone is the obstacle. Once he falls, all may drink deep of abundance."
He fired a single shot—just as the secret chamber door burst open.
The first Incubus through was hit by the forbidden weapon, his body dissolving into black ichor.
The hunters were closing in. The clash with Vect had begun.
Eden and Maris fled into the Webway, while agents fanned out across Commorragh spreading word.
Whispers of the Redemption District and the Scion of Asurmen filled the Dark City.
He who possessed inexhaustible wealth.
He who would bring salvation from She Who Thirsts.
Smuggled soul-elixirs from the District flooded Commorragh's black markets. Once tasted, no Drukhari would return to meager, diluted soul-stuff.
Meanwhile, nobles, soul-poets, and flesh-artists, drawn by the legends, slipped away to visit the Redemption District themselves…
(End of Chapter)
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