The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 132: Lessons of Fire and Death



In the crystalline depths of the Webway, where reality wore thin as gossamer dreams, the Dark Eldar flotilla emerged from the labyrinthine passages like predatory fish sensing blood in the water. Their sleek vessels, adorned with the bones of the fallen and powered by the screams of the dying, cut through the ethereal space with practiced precision. But then they saw it - and terror, that most unfamiliar of sensations, gripped even their black hearts.

Varrach 'Tanara - The Accursed One

The name rippled through the Drukhari vox-nets like a curse, spoken in the harsh whispers of those who had survived Commoragh's darkest day. The Sweet Liberty loomed before them, a cathedral of war given form in steel and spite, its massive frame blocking out the ethereal light of the Webway itself. A thousand ships surrounded it like a swarm of angry wasps around their queen, each one bearing enough firepower to lay waste to worlds.

The Archon stood upon his command deck, cruel features twisted in an expression of carefully masked fear. His Drakon leaned close, voice barely a whisper: "The Dark Eagle's vessel. The bounty-"

"Would mean nothing if we were dead," the Archon cut him off, ancient eyes never leaving the colossus before them. The Sweet Liberty's weapon ports gaped like the mouths of hungry gods, each one promising apocalypse. The Archon had not survived Centuries of Commoragh's politics by being foolish. "Signal the retreat. Let the Major Kabals know. Let them throw their forces against this beast - we shall feast on whatever remains."

The Dark Eldar ships melted back into the shadows of the Webway, leaving only ripples in their wake, like nightmares fading before the dawn.

As the Dark Eldar fleet melted away into the Webway's labyrinthine passages, Franklin Valorian watched from Sweet Liberty's bridge with a mixture of amusement and strategic calculation. The Primarch's massive frame cast a long shadow across the command deck as he turned to address Samuel L. Jaxsen, his Field Marshal.

"Prepare the troops, Sam," he ordered, his voice carrying the easy authority of one born to command. "The Dark Eldar may have fled, but they'll return with friends. I want every approach covered."

Around them, the bridge hummed with activity as officers relayed orders and coordinated the fleet's defensive positions. Each Primeborn Captain had already moved to their assigned chokepoints throughout Sweet Liberty's vast structure - veterans of countless battles against the Dark Eldar's infamous boarding tactics.

Franklin turned to his 3rd Captain, Henry Cavill, who stood analyzing hololithic tactical displays with the focused intensity of a master strategist. "The fleet is yours, Henry," Franklin said, clasping his brother-in-arms' shoulder. "Keep our path home clear."

Cavill nodded, understanding all that went unsaid between them. "We'll be here when you return, my lord."

With that, Franklin strode from the bridge, his footsteps echoing through corridors vast enough to accommodate his transhuman scale. The Eternity Gate awaited - a marvel of techno-arcane engineering that would deliver him to the battlefield below through a wormhole from a monololith.

The scene that greeted him as he materialized on the ground was one of calculated devastation. Liberty Guard formations advanced in perfect coordination, their phosphex weapons creating rivers of all-consuming fire that burned even in the vacuum of the Webway. The air itself seemed to scream as the forbidden weapons did their work, reducing Nurgle's pestilent legions to ash and cinder.

The orbital bombardment had done its work well - nearly three-quarters of the daemon host had been annihilated in that first devastating salvo. But Nurgle's children were nothing if not resilient. Those that remained fought on, their bloated forms healing almost as quickly as they were wounded, spreading their grandfather's gifts with every movement.

Franklin's enhanced senses took in the battlefield in microseconds. His eyes locked onto a Greater Daemon that rose above the carnage like a mountain of rotting flesh and corrupted glory. Without hesitation, he launched himself skyward, his superhuman muscles and armor's systems working in perfect harmony to propel him through the artificial atmosphere. Anaris blazed to life in his hands, the sword's surface becoming as brilliant as a newborn sun. The blade - once the fifth Crone Sword, now reforged by Vulkan's mastery - sang with the fury of Khaine himself. Franklin brought it down in a blazing arc that split reality itself, sending a wave of divine fire directly into the Greater Daemon's corrupted form.

The creature had barely time to register its own destruction before it was unmade, its essence burned away by powers antithetical to its very nature. But Franklin was already moving, Anaris trailing coronas of flame as he carved through the daemonic host with the precision of a surgeon and the fury of a bird of prey.

In the impossible geometries of New-High Commorragh, where reality bent to the whims of its masters and shadows held more truth than light, Asdrubael Vect sat at the head of a table that should not exist. The irony was not lost on him - democracy among the Dark Eldar, perhaps the greatest jest ever played in this city of eternal torment.

The council chamber hung suspended in a void of crystalline darkness, illuminated by the cold fire of dying stars captured and preserved for their light. Firefalls cascaded down impossible angles, their perpetual destruction creating an ambiance of elegant devastation that suited the gathering perfectly.

Vect's fingers traced patterns on the living metal of his throne - one of eleven arranged around the Table of Accord, though 'accord' was perhaps the greatest jest of all. Each seat represented power absolute within its own domain, yet here they sat, forced into cooperation by the specter of a threat that had once reduced their predecessor city to ash and memory.

Varrach 'Tanara. The Accursed One. The Dark Eagle.

Franklin Valorian.

The name burned in Vect's mind like acid, but he kept his expression carefully neutral as he observed his fellow Archons. Each was a master of their own realm, each nursing ambitions that would see the others dead - if not for the ancient protocols that made this chamber one of the few truly neutral grounds in their twisted society.

Vraesque of the Flayed Skull sat like a coiled serpent, his armor adorned with the flayed faces of his enemies. Next to him, Aestra Khromys of the Obsidian Rose examined her crystalline blade with affected disinterest, though Vect knew she was cataloging every minute detail of the gathering. The weapon shops of New Commorragh were hers, and that alone made her one of the most dangerous beings at the table.

Thyndrak's hatred for their Craftworld kin practically radiated from his form, while the aged Akhara'Keth's seemingly frail frame belied a mind that had survived centuries of assassination attempts. The twins, Vorl-Xoelanth and Y'polleon, sat as far apart as the chamber would allow, their mutual loathing charging the air between them with potential

violence.

"Shaiel Nar'Vaul shevarr ilithrak!" (May The Dark Eagle Feast on your Heart!) Vorl-Xoelanth's curse cut through the tense atmosphere.

"Laiheth dra'aneth Commorragh!" (Your Kabal will burn like Commoragh!) Y'polleon's response was immediate, the ancient tongue making the threat of burning kabals sound like

poetry.

Vect smirked at their predictability. The prohibition against violence within the chamber was the only thing preventing fratricide, and even that was a tenuous protection at best. Marquis Vaulkhere's glare could have curdled souls - and probably had, given his reputation. The raid on his Pandaimon sub-realm still ranked among Vect's favorite recent victories. The memory of the Marquis's face when his prized soul-engines were torn from his grasp was a pleasure worth savoring.

And then there was Xerathis, the self-styled master of chaos. Vect's lip curled slightly at the thought. Fucking idiot indeed - though even idiots had their uses, especially when pointed in

the right direction.

But it was the empty seat that drew Vect's eye most often-the throne reserved for Lady Aurelia Malys of the Poisoned Tongue. Once, he had envisioned her by his side, not as an equal but as a prize. She was a vision of cunning and ambition, her rise from the depths of Old Low Commorragh mirroring his own ascent. Vect had admired the sharpness of her Byzantine mind, the lethal wit that could turn rivals into allies and allies into prey.

Something about her unsettled him, distracted him in a way no one else ever had. Her striking beauty, those crimson lips that curved into a predator's smile, her ruthless grace-she embodied everything he coveted. And deep within the black recesses of his heart, he had harbored a dangerous desire: to possess her, to make her the crowning jewel of his triumph. But his plans had been derailed by the one thing he had not foreseen-the Accursed One. Franklin Valorian, the Primarch, the flame that consumed Old Commorragh.

It was a mistake of his own making, though none could ever know. Vect's greed, his unquenchable thirst for dominance, had led him to raid a particular trade route, to seize a scientific vessel that carried secrets too tempting to ignore. Secrets that had drawn the wrath

of the Accursed One.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

When Valorian came, it was with the fury of a storm, reducing Commorragh to ash and shadow. In the inferno of that assault, not only did the towers of the Nobles crumble but also Vect's carefully laid plans. His ambition to make Aurelia Malys his consort had been burned away with the city itself.

Now, she sat as his rival, a power equal to his own. Lady Malys, whose name was whispered with both reverence and fear, had clawed her way into the ranks of the Great Kabals. No longer a trophy to adorn his throne, she was now a threat, her ambitions no less vast than his own.

Still, in the solitude of his darkest thoughts, Vect wondered: If he had not raided that trade route, if he had not taken that scientific vessel, would things have been different? Would Old Commorragh have stood unbroken? Would she have been his?

These were questions he would never voice, not even to himself. Yet, as his gaze lingered on the empty seat, a flicker of what might have been gnawed at him-a weakness he would never

admit.

For Aurelia Malys had risen from the ashes of Old Commorragh, not as his consort but as his rival. And that, more than any other truth, was a wound he could never entirely forget. The doors to the chamber parted like lips opening for a kiss, and she entered. Vect felt his breath catch - a reaction he immediately despised himself for having. Malys moved like liquid poetry, her armor a second skin that left no doubt about the deadly grace it contained. Her hair cascaded like spilled ink touched by flame, and those red, red lips held secrets that had driven lesser beings mad with desire.

The firefalls seemed to dim in her presence, as if reality itself bent slightly to accommodate her passage. Her fan snapped open with a sound like a blade being drawn.

"Am I late?" The question dripped from those perfect lips like honey laced with toxins. Her

eyes met his, and the wink that followed was both invitation and warning. "Like what you see,

Asdrubael?"

Vect realized he had been staring and smoothly transformed his momentary lapse into a

calculated gesture of appreciation. "You are a vision of lethal grace as always, Lady Malys." The words were precise, measured - a move in their eternal game of strategy and seduction.

But beneath the courtesy, his mind raced with calculations. How many assassins had he sent against her? How many had she turned to her own purposes? Each attempt on her life had failed, and each failure had somehow strengthened her position. She was a puzzle he couldn't solve, a weapon he couldn't wield, and that made her the most dangerous being in the

chamber.

"To business then," Vect declared, his voice carrying the weight of authority that had made him master of the Black Heart Kabal. "The Accursed One walks the Webway once more. Sweet

Liberty and her thousand escorts thread our ancient paths like a cancer in the veins of reality

itself."

The chamber erupted in a cacophony of voices, each Archon competing to be heard above the others. Vect let them vent their immediate reactions, watching how each revealed their private fears and ambitions in their response to the news.

Vect watched as each archon offered their thoughts, most advocating caution. The memory of

Old Commorragh's fall was still too fresh, the weight of the Dark Eagle's reputation too

heavy. Then Lady Malys began to speak, and Vect watched in admiration as she wove her web of words. Her argument was masterful - playing on each archon's fears and ambitions in equal

measure.

"The lesser archons grow restless," she purred, her fan dancing like a blade in candlelight. "They whisper of opportunity while we sit in our towers, paralyzed by memory and fear."

Vect saw the effect her words had on the others. Even the twins had stopped their bickering to

listen.

"Imagine," she continued, "if some minor player were to succeed where we feared to try. What then of our positions? What then of the careful balance we've built?"

Her eyes met Vect's for a moment, and he saw the dangerous intelligence there. She was right, of course. The political structure of New Commorragh was far more fragile than that of its predecessor. One significant shift in power could shatter everything they'd built from the ashes of the old city.

"But there's an opportunity here," Lady Malys's voice dropped to an intimate whisper that somehow carried to every corner of the chamber. "The lesser kabals yearn for glory. Let them have it - let them throw themselves against the Dark Eagle's guns. Those who survive will be easier to control, and those who don't..."

"Will no longer pose a threat," Vect finished the thought, earning a smile that sent shivers

down his spine.

"And let us not forget the prize," she added, her fan snapping shut with finality. "The Sweet

Liberty - a vessel that could hold New Commorragh itself hostage. Imagine such power in the hands of whoever proves... worthy."

The chamber erupted in calculated murmurs of agreement. Vect watched as Lady Malys's words took root in each archon's mind, transforming their fear into ambition. It was masterfully done - she had given them a way to act without seeming weak, to risk everything while risking nothing of their own.

Yet even as he joined in the general consensus, Vect's mind was racing ahead. Lady Malys's

plan was perfect too perfect. What game was she really playing? Did she truly expect them

to believe she would be content to let others claim such a prize? No, there was something else

at work here.

But that was the beauty of it - even knowing there must be a deeper scheme, none of them

could afford not to participate. To stand aside now would be to risk everything. Lady Malys had maneuvered them all into a position where they had to act, had to commit their forces, had to play whatever game she had designed.

As the council broke up, each archon already planning their own schemes within schemes,

Vect caught Lady Malys's eye one final time. She offered him a smile that promised everything and nothing, then disappeared in a swirl of animated shadows.

Vect remained in his throne long after the others had gone, contemplating the web they'd all willingly walked into. The Dark Eagle was returning to the Webway, and New Commorragh would move against him - not because they wanted to, but because Lady Malys had made it impossible for them not to.

"Well played," he whispered to the empty chamber. Whether he meant Lady Malys's manipulation or the Dark Eagle's ability to inspire such fear even in absence, even he wasn't

quite sure.

One thing was certain - the coming conflict would reshape the balance of power in New Commorragh, one way or another. The only question was whether any of them would survive to see what rose from the ashes this time.

Archon Khayrith of the Kabal of Shattered Dreams was born into a New Commorragh that

remembered the Dark Eagle only through whispered tales and fading scars. Unlike his elders, who still woke in cold sweats remembering the day their ancient city burned, Khayrith saw those stories as exactly that - stories meant to frighten children and keep ambitious young

Archons in line.

Standing on the bridge of his flagship, the Crimson Spite, he watched the tactical holograms with barely concealed contempt. The Sweet Liberty's massive form dominated the display, its escort fleet arranged in what he considered an amateur formation - heavily concentrated at bow and stern, leaving the flanks seemingly exposed.

"Look at them," he sneered to his bridge crew, his armor's joints crying out in crystalline tones as he gestured at the display. "Cowering behind their escorts like frightened grox. Is this the terrible Dark Eagle that makes our elders tremble?"

His lieutenants exchanged glances, their own youth making them eager to believe their leader's bravado. None of them had seen Old Commorragh burn. None of them had witnessed entire Kabals reduced to atoms in seconds by the Sweet Liberty's weapons. Their knowledge came from books and tales, easily dismissed as exaggeration.

"The Imperials always build their ships the same way," Khayrith continued, pacing the command deck with predatory grace. "slow, clumsy monsters relying on broadside batteries and forward guns. They leave their flanks exposed because they're too stupid to protect them properly." He paused, a cruel smile playing across his features. "And look how they've arranged their escorts - practically begging us to strike at their flagship's vulnerable sides."

The tactical officer, slightly older than most of the bridge crew, cleared his throat. "My lord, the records speak of unusual weapon configurations on the Sweet Liberty. Perhaps we should-

"The records speak of many things," Khayrith cut him off. "They speak of daemons in the

shadows and monsters under beds. I deal in reality, not ancient propaganda meant to keep us fearful and compliant."

He zoomed in on the massive vessel's hull, highlighting what appeared to be standard Imperial weapon emplacements. "See? Nothing we haven't encountered before. The only difference is the scale - and bigger just means easier to hit."

His raiding fleet of 200 ships moved through the Webway with practiced precision. Each

vessel was a masterwork of Dark Eldar engineering, swift and deadly, crewed by warriors who had never known defeat. They had conducted dozens of successful raids against Imperial convoys and merchant fleets. This would be no different.

"The elders speak of this 'Dark Eagle' as if he were some kind of demigod," Khayrith laughed,

watching his fleet close the distance. "But I see only another mon-keigh playing at war with his oversized toys. We'll show them what true masters of the void can do."

The tactical officer opened his mouth again, perhaps to offer another warning, but thought

better of it. The young Archon's confidence had infected the entire crew, making them eager for the glory of being the ones to prove the old stories wrong.

"Prepare boarding parties. I want that ship's secrets laid bare before-"

The rest of his sentence was lost in a flash of blinding light.

In the fraction of a second before his atoms were scattered across the Webway, Khayrith's

enhanced senses registered several things:

First, what he had dismissed as standard weapon emplacements were anything but. The

Sweet Liberty's hull seemed to shimmer and shift, revealing layers upon layers upon layers of weaponry that took Imperial Philosophy and cranked it up to 11. Second, the "exposed" flanks had been nothing of the sort. The escort formation wasn't

meant to protect the flagship - it was meant to give it clear firing lines.

The Sweet Liberty's response was simultaneous and overwhelming. Every weapon battery

that was on it's port activated at once, creating a web of energy so dense it appeared solid.

Khayrith's fleet had no time to evade, no chance to demonstrate their vaunted maneuverability. Two hundred ships, each a masterpiece of Dark Eldar engineering, vanished

in a single salvo.

From the safety of their spy-screens, the great Archons of New Commorragh watched with a

mixture of horror and avarice. They saw their sacrificial pawn removed from the board with surgical precision, and in that removal, they saw both warning and promise. Lady Malys observed the destruction through half-lidded eyes, her ever-present fan hiding

what might have been a smile. "Ah, youth," she murmured, "always in such a hurry to learn life's hardest lessons."

Asdrubael Vect's expression remained carefully neutral, but his fingers tightened imperceptibly on his throne's armrests. The rumors had not been exaggerated after all - if anything, they had understated the Sweet Liberty's power. Such a weapon would indeed change the balance of power in New Commorragh... if it could be claimed.

In the Webway, the Sweet Liberty's weapons slowly cycled down, the apocalyptic energy of

their discharge gradually fading. There was something almost casual about the destruction it

had wreaked, as if swatting away Khayrith's fleet had been no more effort than brushing aside an annoying insect.

The lesson was written in fire and void: the Dark Eagle's reputation had been earned in blood

and horror, and those who forgot that truth paid for their ignorance with their lives. Khayrith's tale would join the others - another cautionary whisper in New Commorragh's halls about the folly of underestimating Franklin Valorian and his terrible ship. But as the other Archons began plotting their own approaches, calculating angles of attack and weighing the cost in expendable lives, they missed the deeper truth that Kralith's death

had revealed. The Sweet Liberty hadn't just destroyed his fleet - it had done so with casual efficiency, like a practiced swordsman dispatching an amateur's clumsy lunge. This wasn't just power. This was power that knew exactly how to use itself. And somewhere in the vast cathedral-ship's corridors, Franklin Valorian smiled, knowing that the real battle was only just beginning. The Dark Eldar would learn, as they had before,

why the Sweet Liberty's name was spoken with such fear in the shadows of their new home. Some lessons, after all, had to be taught again and again, written in fire and death until they

could never be forgotten.

A/N: Merry Christmas!