Gathering Storm
For all her playful antics and teasing, Corvus knew well that Sachmis was far more than she appeared. Beneath her dangerously carefree exterior was an extraordinarily capable foe, especially when properly motivated, and on the eve of the war for Port Kalthuanesh, Sachmis was most certainly inspired.
After everything she had told him, Corvus knew she was certainly the type to earn her authority and equal parts praise and infamy. From a young age, she had been trained relentlessly by House Jainorio in the arts of war and governance, molded into the perfect weapon and guardian for their dynasty.
But the creation meant to protect them would herald the end of the great house. The deadly instrument they had forged, abused, and almost sacrificed would soon descend upon their wretched ancestral home as a conqueror. The air was thick with the anticipation of the impending war.
At one time, the idea of invading and occupying Port Kalthuanesh would have been nothing more than a pipe dream for Sachmis. To launch such an assault would have been a fool's errand, requiring an impossible number of armies, ships, and minds strong enough to withstand the horrors housed by a branch of the Ulwarth.
Despite all her skill and cunning, Sachmis had once been just one woman—one who nearly lost everything when Corvus defeated her during the Void War. Yet now, the situation has drastically changed. Corvus stood by her side, his legion ready to march along with a coalition of powerful allies. By all accounts, she had amassed a formidable invasion force—one capable of turning her once-distant fantasy into an imminent reality.
Yet victory was far from guaranteed. This would be a challenge unlike any she had ever faced. But despite the looming uncertainty, Corvus had faith in her. Sachmis was, before all else, a survivor.
He had experienced her skill firsthand during the Void War. For an entire year, their fleets clashed in a grueling campaign that tested every facet of his command—strategic prowess, fleet coordination, logistics, and resilience. Even dueling her one-on-one.
Sachmis had
almost matched a Primarch, and his legion blow for blow, even outmaneuvering another Primarch entirely. Her cunning was a force to be reckoned with, a thrill to witness. And that was only the most recent testament to her cunning. Long before that, she had outwitted and outlasted countless Drukhari rivals.
Her defeat at his hands hadn't ended anything; fate had seemingly pushed her into his arms. Corvus still wondered if Eldrad had manipulated the situation, but he couldn't deny that he enjoyed having Sachmis there. Love had complicated things, which made him perhaps
too receptive to her ideas and suggestions.
Yet, to her credit, Sachmis never demanded anything from him or tried to exploit their relationship. She only asked for his aid. She truly desired Corvus to witness her greatest triumph firsthand—to prove she was "worthy" to stand by his side.
Sachmis sought to become her master once and for all, with an empire at her command and the power and titles to match. That's why she had assembled this vast coalition of armies, fleets, and heroes.
Her forces were a chaotic mix—slavers, reavers, pirates, mercenaries, and daredevils, all drawn by promises of glory, wealth, or the chance to claim a slice of Port Kalthuanesh for themselves. This future aristocracy of her empire would be forged from those who rejected the rule of any other power.
Yet the invasion was not entirely built on opportunists. A large contingent included Aeldari vassals, League mercenaries, and Imperial volunteers, who were called forth by Corvus and Roboute. Even Kesar had sent a company of Wardens and several of his champions, eager to spill the blood of Chaos worshipers and daemon summoners.
Others were less virtuous. Sachmis had gathered almost 50 minor Kabals and two major ones: the Kabal of the Piercing Eclipse and the Kabal of the Bladed Masquerade. Corvus would have ordered his legion to destroy either Kabal if it didn't mean getting Sachmis on his case. Such vile groups run even worse Archons.
The Kabal of the Piercing Eclipse specialized in precision strikes, assassinations, and shadow-based tactics, operating like a sinister fusion of the Raven Guard's stealth and the Night Lords' terror but with a distinct emphasis on void warfare. In contrast, the Kabal of the Bladed Masquerade was more akin to the Dark Troupe of the Harlequins, favoring brutal close-quarters combat and psychological manipulation to break their enemies before the killing blow.
Corvus found little comfort in the presence of their Archons. Astryxia the Tenebrous, the cold and calculating Mistress of the Piercing Eclipse, unnerved him. She was notorious for collecting the eyes of her fallen enemies—an intimate and macabre obsession she had boasted about openly to the Primarch. Astryxia was already positioning herself to become a key figure in the Drukhari aristocracy Sachmis intended to establish, eager to reap the benefits of aligning with this new regime.
Then there was Varokh the Flayer, a grotesque and twisted figure whose self-mutilated face was both a testament to his cruelty and a reflection of the darkness festering within him. His war mask, ill-fitting and grotesque, added to his unsettling appearance. Varokh's voice was a guttural mockery of refined speech, a chilling contradiction to his bloodthirsty nature. He had confessed to Sachmis his ambitions of dominating the lesser Kabals under her reign, frustrated by the fact that he couldn't achieve the same in the cutthroat politics of Commorragh.
Corvus didn't trust either of them—nor, for that matter, did he trust Sachmis fully—but she was unfazed by his wariness.
"Those two will be at each other's throats before long," Sachmis had remarked, her tone dismissive. "As will most of the Kabals. It'll be a problem for me to handle after I take the Port."
Sachmis' nonchalance toward the inevitable infighting was predictable, but it still grated on Corvus to witness such self-serving individuals vying for her favor. Their so-called "fealty" was little more than opportunism, based entirely on the rewards they hoped to extract.
Not that Corvus could entirely blame them. The mere prospect of a fraction of Kalthuanesh's wealth could elevate them to a noble on Terra or arm them with enough firepower to build a private army. It was an alluring prize that drove even the most cutthroat of mercenaries and Kabals to fall in line.
Even his brothers, Roboute and Kesar, had pragmatic reasons for their involvement, though personal gain wasn't their primary motivation. Corvus, however, felt a strong obligation to compensate them, given the risks their forces faced. Sending their soldiers to fight—and potentially die—just to secure a Dark Eldar's throne wasn't exactly the most compelling cause for most. Offering payment or rewards for their assistance felt like the least he could do.
Yet not all came solely for riches. Many sought to prove themselves—whether to the Primarchs, the Aeldari, or, in some cases, their gods. For them, the conflict at Kalthuanesh was more than just a battle; it was an opportunity to test their mettle or prove themselves in the name of something greater than themselves.
The Black Library…
One month before the Invasion…
Corvus had attended enough social gatherings to know that mingling with anyone outside his own Astartes or his Primarch brothers rarely ended well. This event, saturated as it was with Drukhari, only reinforced that wisdom.
Yet, this was a gathering of those preparing to take part in the invasion of Kalthuanesh, and Sachmis insisted it was necessary to publicly consort with and officially vassalize those swearing loyalty to her future empire. A grand spectacle for the Drukhari, but for the humans—Imperial or otherwise—Asuryani, and other alien representatives, it was an uncomfortable affair.
The Astartes clearly disliked being there, their unease palpable. Meanwhile, the League and Confederacy humans busied themselves conversing with the minor alien species also drawn into this war. The awkwardness of the situation only emphasized a chief concern for Corvus: this felt, more than anything, like a Dark Eldar operation. Sachmis' presence loomed too large and her kin too numerous for it to seem otherwise.
Only the attendance of Corvus himself, along with the Harlequins and a few Asuryani commanders, helped dilute that perception somewhat. Even so, Corvus wasn't sure if his presence truly helped matters, especially after the arrival of his exiled sons.
That discovery had been uncomfortable, made worse when Captain Jesk approached the Primarch to explain that his former First Captain, Arkhas, had branded the group of exiles the Terran Raptors. It seemed Arkhas had been busy during his exile, earning the favor of the Khan and his White Scars legion.
Corvus had discovered that Sachmis had cast a wide net, reaching out to anyone willing to join the invasion with promises of land, titles, riches, and a safe haven to establish a stronghold. He didn't expect that the Terran Raptors would answer the call—a revelation that greatly annoyed the Primarch.
Arkhas, unsurprisingly still alive and also the leader of the exiles, had always been a staunch believer in the Imperium and, by extension, the Emperor. Corvus couldn't fathom why the Terran Raptors would now ally themselves with an alien warlord, let alone Sachmis. Naturally, he confronted her about this turn of events. She responded with characteristic nonchalance, stating simply that she was open to help from anyone capable of contributing to her cause.
The revelation that the Terran Raptors were his exiled sons amused Sachmis and further irritated Corvus. Still, he knew better than to dictate whom she could or couldn't recruit. Eldrad had offered no guidance on the matter, leaving Corvus with no choice but to accept their participation.
His legion, however, did not share in that acceptance. Tensions ran high, and Corvus wisely chose to keep the Raven Guard and the Terran Raptors separated for the duration of the campaign. The situation was deeply embarrassing, a bitter reminder of his fractured legacy, but it couldn't be allowed to interfere with the greater mission.
Setting aside those personal frustrations, Corvus used the time at the gathering to speak with the other forces answering the call to arms. As expected, the Eternal Wardens and Ultramarines detachments were eager and dependable, as always. Captain Jesk and Ventamedes would prove invaluable against the Ulwarth and any daemons they might summon.
Other allies had come forward as well. The Dravenaxian Collective had contributed an army of volunteers and a trio of drone carriers for the void campaign. The Phylstria Sancta sent a cohort of their Tranquility Monks, whose blank nature would be invaluable here. The Stellar Empire of Ascalin had committed one of their super-dreadnoughts and a small support fleet, while the former Free Worlds Coalition provided five penal legions. Lastly, the Rukh Gradation had sent an expeditionary force under the command of Noius Malion.
It was a diverse and formidable coalition, but Corvus couldn't shake the feeling that once the campaign began, the fragile unity of this alliance would be tested. The tensions between the Imperial humans and their Confederacy counterparts were palpable, and both groups viewed the League mercenaries with a wary eye. Trust was thin, and fractures were already visible.
Did Corvus believe this coalition could ultimately win? Yes, but he was more concerned about what would happen afterward—when the spoils of war and the treasures of Kalthuanesh would need to be divided. That was when things would become complicated. While he could ensure that Kesar and Roboute's sons were taken care of, everyone else? That would fall to Sachmis to manage.
As Corvus brooded over these thoughts, a familiar voice interrupted his contemplation. "Finding it hard to stomach the company of aliens?"
Corvus grimaced before turning to face Arkhas Fal, his former First Captain. It had been nearly a century since they'd last spoken—since Corvus had exiled Arkhas and his men, condemning them to fight for the Imperium "beyond the light of the Astronomicon."
The insult had undoubtedly lingered for Arkhas. Corvus knew that all too well. "Something like that," the Primarch replied tersely.
Arkhas sipped Aeldari wine, holding his glass as if offering a toast. "Their swill is tolerable. The toxins add a unique... flavor."
"Hmm." Corvus gave a noncommittal grunt, his eyes drawn to a pair of lesser Archons prostrating themselves before Sachmis. She sat with regal smugness, exuding the kind of imperious satisfaction that almost made the Primarch smirk.
After a brief silence, Arkhas spoke again. "So, you truly have nothing to say?"
"No," Corvus replied flatly, "I seem to recall you saying the next time we met, you'd kill me." Their last encounter had ended in bitterness, filled with accusations and threats. "Nor do I expect you to have anything positive to say."
Arkhas smirked, a small, sardonic curl of his lips. "Considering what I've heard, I'd say we've both become such disgraces to one another that it's almost poetic. Gives us room for conversation, even with blades at each other's throats."
Recognizing that Arkhas wasn't about to leave, Corvus turned fully to face him. "What do you want, Arkhas?"
"To understand your decisions, or simply why you are here." There was bitterness in Arkhas's voice. "Because from where I stand, you've become a hypocrite. You banished us for practicing slavery, a practice that still exists within the Imperium, and now here you are, literally sleeping with the enemy and aiding the continuation of those same 'vile and cruel' practices. Practices you condemned your own sons for." He gestured toward the gathering of Dark Eldar and other aliens. "How did you become this?"
Corvus frowned, his gaze hardening. "And you want to know why I've seemingly done an about-face?"
"These creatures brag openly about the number of slaves they've brought into her domain," Arkhas growled, his voice low and seething. "And you—so blinded by your affair—can't even see it. Frankly, I think we got off easy being exiled. At least I don't have to endure this hypocrisy."
Corvus felt no need to justify himself, but he answered calmly. "This isn't an ideal situation, I'll admit. But Sachmis and I have plans to address the issue of slavery. We intend to implement manumission within her new empire."
"Manumission?" Arkhas raised an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. "The Drukhari won't accept that. They thrive on this cruelty."
Corvus chuckled darkly. "Oh, I know they won't. Most of them will likely be dealt with by the Harlequins before long." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a quiet intensity. "But Sachmis will honor any act of manumission within her realm. If nothing else, the slaves will be freed and turned over to the state."
"That won't win her many allies or friends," Arkhas argued, his tone sharp. "All she'll get is the fleeting gratitude of freed slaves, who will hold no real power."
"Perhaps," Corvus conceded, though his expression remained calm. "But I have faith that she'll make it work. It won't be easy, but Sachmis is no stranger to uphill battles."
Arkhas shook his head, his face a mask of disbelief. "You put far too much faith in her. You can't know if this will end in her favor."
Corvus met his former son's gaze, a hint of resignation in his voice. "You're not wrong. But that's the nature of faith—you have to give someone the chance to succeed, or fail, on their own terms." He paused as if weighing his next words carefully. "I'll admit, Arkhas, if I had the wisdom then that I do now, I might have given you and the others that same opportunity. But I didn't, and for that... you have my apologies. For whatever little it may be worth to you."
"It means nothing to me," Arkhas replied bitterly, though a glimmer of acknowledgment flickered behind his eyes. "But at least you've gained some self-awareness to overcome your monumental failure. How the Emperor hasn't executed you by now is a mystery to me."
"He almost did," Corvus admitted quietly, the words hitting Arkhas with the force of an unexpected blow.
The Shade Lord's eyes widened in surprise, but Corvus cut the moment short before he could respond. "Now, unless you have anything else to say, we're done here."
Clearly, the Primarch had no desire to continue the conversation, and Arkhas, though still brimming with resentment, offered no further retort, spat, and left the Primarch. That entire interaction could have gone better, but it could have gotten bloody. Much as the Aeldari would have liked a bit of bloodshed, Corvus wasn't in the mood.
Arkhas's lingering resentment was expected, but his words carried a bitter truth. Corvus couldn't fully deny that, in some ways, he was enabling the Dark Eldar—even if Sachmis had plans to gradually free the slaves. Vulkan would have been the first to point out the similarity to the Emperor's own promises: that all slaves would be freed
eventually—a promise where "eventually" was constantly pushed further down the line.
The difference now was that Corvus had compromised, but only for Sachmis. Love had a way of entangling even the clearest of convictions, often pulling him into decisions he wouldn't have otherwise made. It complicated things more than he cared to admit. And yet, that was the price of loving someone—one paid it, even when it chafed against the core of who they were.
Sachmis found mild amusement in the endless groveling and hollow declarations of loyalty from those eager to claim a place in her inevitable empire. She trusted these Archons only as far as she could throw them—no farther. But that was to be expected. This room was teeming with sycophants, each positioning themselves to one day try and kill her, seize her power, and make her legacy their own.
Fools. Most of these so-called lords had spent centuries locked in petty squabbles from the safety of their opulent estates. They enjoyed their power at a comfortable distance, while Sachmis had been forced to fight tooth and claw since birth, rising as the núromul of House Jainorio and surviving foes that would have sent these pretenders fleeing in terror.
Such was the price of being surrounded by cravens who coveted her inevitable dynasty. They multiplied like void rats or sometimes even like Orks. Equally crude and disgusting. Varokh and Astryxia, in particular, would inevitably move against her—and when the time came, Sachmis would deal with them as ruthlessly as she had every other obstacle in her path.
But she wasn't alone in this. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught sight of Corvus speaking quietly with Arkhas Fal, the Shade Lord and master of those Terran Raptor Astartes. Arkhas wanted a place in her new order, and she was more than willing to abide, even if it annoyed Corvus.
Whatever her lover had said clearly didn't sit well with Arkhas, as he stormed off in frustration. Corvus, unbothered, rolled his eyes before locking gazes with her across the room. He gave her a familiar, irresistible look that sent a thrill down her spine. It spoke volumes without a word, as if saying,
You owe me a favor, and I'll be collecting it tonight.
That worthless goddess didn't need to influence Sachmis when it came to enjoying Corvus as a lover. For all his claims of restraint, she had trained him well in the art of indulgence. Sachmis couldn't help but smile at the thought.
What was the point of having a demigod as a lover if he didn't occasionally sweep her off her feet? It was a romantic notion, but she relished it. With Corvus, love had allowed her a rare vulnerability, a space to truly let her guard down. He certainly earned that favor from her.
Speaking of favors, this entire gathering had another purpose: to dispense her carefully calculated "benevolence" upon the lesser elements of her coalition, promising rewards for their loyalty and services. Hundreds of petitioners had come to grovel for her favor, some more peculiar than others.
Take the creature standing before her now, for instance. It called itself an "Elf"—an unsettling figure that seemed like an unnatural fusion of Aeldari and Human. Yet unlike her patron goddess, Venus, this Elf had none of her divine beauty or grace. It was a twisted, unsettling thing, lacking the elegance that even the basest of Aeldari possessed.
"And what exactly are you supposed to be?" Sachmis asked, lounging in her seat with a bored expression. The other guests, petitioners, and allies watched with mild interest. "You look like some kind of mutation."
The "Elf" didn't flinch at the insult. Instead, it responded calmly, "My name is Alexis Gaemon. I have come to ask for your patronage."
Sachmis eyed the so-called Elf with mild curiosity, though not exactly impressed. Their attire caught her attention briefly—an armored robe, its chaotic patterns of clashing colors somehow creating a strange, mesmerizing harmony. The ensemble might have been designed to distract or confound, but Sachmis saw through it easily. Beneath the elaborate garments, their form was slender and willowy, more fragile than the bulkier Astartes and lacking the raw predatory edge of her own Drukhari kin. Yet, the twin curved blades at their side were unmistakable signs of a warrior, likely one who relied on speed and finesse. A blade dancer, perhaps.
For all their fragility, there was something undeniably captivating about them. A cascade of silver hair framed a face that blurred the lines between masculine and feminine, a striking androgyny that lent them an otherworldly beauty. Their violet eyes gleamed with an intensity that suggested they had seen more than most and perhaps embraced it.
However, what truly piqued Sachmis's interest was not their appearance but their voice. It carried a quiet gravity, a subtle resonance that straddled the line between madness and enlightenment. As such, it got a bit of her attention.
"If you seek my patronage," Sachmis began with a dismissive wave, "then simply seek glory in the coming campaign in my name. There will be no shortage of enemies to slay."
"Indeed," Alexis replied, bowing their head slightly, "but it is not just your foes I seek. My purpose is to preserve knowledge for your domain."
That remark made Sachmis pause; her interest suddenly piqued. "Ah, you speak of the libraries of Port Kalthuanesh. They are not as grand as you might hope. And yet you wish to preserve something from them?"
"The Laughing God spoke of a tome within its walls," Alexis said with quiet certainty, "one that promises enlightenment. Let me find and safeguard it, and in return, I shall offer my services as your first Historian."
Sachmis tilted her head, intrigued. What was Cegorach playing at by sending this one after some ancient tome? Still, the idea was tempting. The Drukhari would care little for the role of historian, and she wasn't inclined to trust a Harlequin or a human with such a duty. At least this creature had some trace of Aeldari blood, even if they were still an abomination in the eyes of her kin.
"Very well," she said after a moment's thought. "Swear your allegiance to me, and I shall task you with two responsibilities: Preserve the libraries of Port Kalthuanesh and serve as my official historian. You will ensure that the tale of my glorious rise is recorded accurately and with all due reverence."
Alexis bowed deeply, their violet eyes gleaming with understanding. "It shall be done, my queen."
The title "my queen" sent a delightful thrill through Sachmis's chest. Empress was still her ultimate goal, but for now, queen would suffice. With a satisfied smile, she gestured for the next petitioner. Alexis backed away with a graceful bow, and soon, a hulking figure in sealed power armor approached, the gleaming surface of its suit reflecting the low light of the chamber.
"Well, well, well," Sachmis purred, her eyes glinting with amusement. "A Dravenaxian. I've yet to speak with anyone from your Collective. And, from what I've heard, your species has no noteworthy accomplishments. Or any at all, for that matter."
The armored figure let out a mechanical chuckle, its voice modulated by a synthetic filter and colored by a foreign accent as it replied in High Gothic. "I am Mikael, 1st Gearlord of the Dravenaxian Order of Explorers and Traders. I greet you in the name of the Collective and the Lord of Gears."
Sachmis waved her hand, cutting through the formalities. "Spare me your titles, Gearlord," she said, her voice laced with mild impatience. She leaned forward slightly, her gaze sharp and probing. "What use do you and your order have for my future empire?"
"Port Kalthuanesh stands as a gateway to many worlds and cultures," Mikael began confidently, "where the treasures of countless civilizations flow unseen. Allow the Dravenaxian Collective to establish an enclave within its walls. We seek not just to trade our machines for resources but to collect the histories of those who pass through and offer our skills to help organize your burgeoning empire."
Sachmis's eyes narrowed in clear disinterest. "Do you think I need a minor species of Mon'keigh to organize my empire or manage my trade? I ask for warriors of ambition, not merchants seeking trade routes or peddling wares like common street vendors."
Mikael remained unfazed, his tone even as he responded. "Nothing so presumptuous, your grace. While the Order may not have the combat reputation of others, every Dravenaxian is eager to test themselves in battle. We are not without experience. Thanks to the Lord of Gears, each of us bears the wisdom of those who fought in our wars on Drave. We carry the memories and knowledge of our greatest warriors and tacticians, ready to... how do you say, 'stretch our legs' on the battlefield."
That caught Sachmis's attention. "You can draw upon the memories of dead warriors? A useful trick, perhaps, but it doesn't speak highly of your capabilities."
Mikael nodded calmly. "Indeed. They are a supplement to our true strengths—construction, exploration, and administration. But we are not without the will to prove ourselves."
Sachmis leaned back, her interest piqued but not fully swayed. "If the Order wishes to earn its place within my empire, let it do so by pulling off a feat worthy of my attention. Impress me, Gearlord, and perhaps you'll find a place here after all."
"We need only be given the chance," Mikael said, bowing slightly. "In return, your empire will benefit from our expertise and a tithe in your honor. While our construction drones may not craft the same wonders as the Aeldari, they excel in earthmoving and debris clearing—tasks beneath the ambition of most of your followers, I imagine."
Sachmis's patience thinned. "I don't need more laborers."
But then she paused, considering the potential. If these Dravenaxians could recover something of value from the ruins of war, their usefulness became clearer. The idea of having a dedicated combat sapper and reclamation force intrigued her. "However, if you prove yourselves... and salvage something worthwhile from the wreckage..." Her tone shifted, the seeds of a plan forming in her mind. "Yes, I may offer you my patronage in that case."
"Then we shall do exactly that." Mikael bowed once more. "On the memories and legacy of our kin, the Dravenaxian Order of Explorers and Traders pledges its fealty to you, your grace."
Another successful alliance. Sachmis watched with mild satisfaction as the petitioners continued—minor mercenary bands, pirate clans, and lesser champions, all eager to share in the coming glory of her ascension.
As the final petitions drew near, a commotion stirred at the chamber's far end. A young human woman argued with two of her Kabalite guards, flanked by a silent, hulking Dravenaxian companion. The guards seemed unimpressed, but the woman's persistence was causing a scene.
"What is going on over there?" Sachmis asked sharply, turning to one of her magistrates—a weary, ancient human scribe named Sebastian. He was a "gift" from Corvus, who had insisted she treat him well, claiming he would be an invaluable asset.
As much as she hated to admit it, Sebastian had proven useful, a diligent magistrate with a keen mind for detail. Corvus had been right, of course.
Sebastian glanced over, equally irked by the disruption. "Likely some rabble-rouser," he muttered. Then, raising his voice, he said, "Who dares seek an audience with her grace? Her time is precious."
The young woman interjected boldly, "Me!" She stepped forward with all the enthusiasm of a naive adventurer, but there was a determination in her eyes, the kind that sought validation from someone important. As she approached Sachmis, she stood tall, eager to prove herself.
She was a pretty little thing, with short-cropped dark hair, clearly practical for combat, though a few rebellious strands fell across her brow. Her brown eyes gleamed with ambition, and her tan skin spoke of many hours under the sun—likely from a world like Venus. Despite her youth, Sachmis recognized subtle hints of martial skill in how she held herself: firm, with a posture that betrayed readiness. But more than that, there was something familiar about the girl, an aura that tugged at Sachmis' memories.
"And who is this, standing before her grace without waiting their proper turn?" Sebastian inquired sharply, maintaining the decorum required for such an audience while Sachmis quietly contemplated this fiery newcomer.
"My name is Kima Serif," the young woman announced, turning toward Sachmis and offering an awkward yet earnest bow. "Your grace!"
A certain reckless pride radiated from Kima—a fire burning hot for martial glory. She was clearly eager to prove herself on the battlefield but just as clearly inexperienced. Her armor gleamed with the telltale shine of newness, though it was well cared for. Strapped across her back was a glaive with a shimmering purple and blue glass blade, almost ceremonial in its beauty.
Sachmis's eyes narrowed as she noted two things. First was the symbol of the Venusian warrior caste, a detail that irked her slightly. She only recognized it due to the "enlightenment" forced upon her by a goddess she found particularly tiresome. Second, and far more intriguing, was the subtle flicker of warp energy dancing at Kima's fingertips—a sign of a warp user.
"A War-Witch," Sachmis mused to herself, "but still in the early stages of mastering her gift."
Kima flinched slightly, surprised at how quickly Sachmis had discerned her. "Y-yes, I am a Cevher Kadı—a novice practitioner." She realized how unconvincing that might sound and hastily added, "But I've been trained and tested by none other than Sultana Suraia!"
Sachmis's expression soured the moment she heard that name. Suraia—her. They had never seen eye to eye. The so-called Idol of Venus and her faithful saw Sachmis as little more than a troublesome xeno meddler, despite Sachmis's role as a messenger of their goddess. The distaste was mutual.
"How... enlightening," Sachmis replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm. She wasn't particularly enthused by the mention of Suraia, but something in her softened for a moment. Much to her own surprise, she decided to give Kima a chance. Corvus's bad habits are rubbing off on me, she thought with irritation.
She gestured for the young woman to continue, an eyebrow raised in mock impatience. "Well then, out with it. Why do you seek my patronage?"
"I want to fight directly alongside you," Kima declared with unwavering determination. Her words were met with sneers and laughter from the other petitioners and Dark Eldar in the room, who clearly found the idea absurd. For someone so young and inexperienced to ask for such a prestigious position was audacious, to say the least—seven others had already made the same request, and all had been turned away.
Yet Sachmis, intrigued by this fiery young woman, decided to indulge her. "How old are you?" she asked, arching an eyebrow. "You don't seem all that... experienced."
"I'm twenty solar years," Kima answered proudly. "I've been training since I was six—before my gift even emerged." She straightened her posture, confidence radiating from her. "I've been honored as the first War-Shaper since the Warlord's conquest during the Unification of Sol. And," she added, raising her chin, "I have been granted a boon from Venus and the Lord of Gears."
That last remark immediately piqued Sachmis's interest. The room quieted, and several others, including the Dravenaxians, leaned in. "A boon?" Sachmis echoed her tone, now far more curious. She settled back into her throne, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Do tell, what exactly is this boon that has you so boldly standing before me?"
Kima turned toward her hulking Dravenaxian companion, surprising everyone. "Briggs, maybe you can help explain."
"Yes," the Dravenaxian, Briggs, replied in a voice that echoed with an ethereal, almost ghostly resonance—eerily reminiscent of the Aeldari's Wraithguard.
Sachmis scrutinized the being called "Briggs," and it quickly became clear that this was no ordinary Dravenaxian. On the surface, he appeared similar to one, but something felt… off. The air around him was heavy with an eerie, unnatural presence, reminiscent of Wraithbone but far more alien.
It didn't take long for Sachmis to sense the truth. His body, forged entirely from Venerianite and Verdigris Alloy, was artificial—merely a shell. Beneath the surface, something ancient and foreign stirred. The faint, briny scent of an alien sea emanated from the construct, and once again, her tether to Venus grated against her senses, reminding her of the goddess' unwanted influence.
"So, this is your boon?" Sachmis asked, her eyes narrowing as she took in the sight. "A tin man?"
Briggs' voice echoed, hollow yet unsettlingly smooth, sending a ripple of unease through the room, though it oddly comforted her. "I am not a tin man. This form is meant for civil interactions. My true form... would not fit in this place."
"True form?" Sachmis smirked, now genuinely intrigued.
Kima, eager to clarify, chimed in. "Briggs is a Litho-Golem," she began, then hesitated, realizing the enormity of her words. "Well… that's what his true form is, I mean."
"What exactly is his true form, then?" Sachmis asked, leaning forward with growing curiosity.
"Closest approximate classification: Imperial Knight, Armiger-class," Briggs answered in a mechanical tone. "I am equipped with a Thermite Spear, Twin-linked heavy stubber, and the Northstar Heavy Rotary Cannon."
Sachmis waved her hand dismissively, uninterested in the technical details. "And what makes you any different from a human war machine?"
Briggs' hollow voice carried a slight shift in tone that hinted at something deeper. "Unlike human constructs, I am a fusion of countless souls and memories—bound by purpose, not mere programming. I think, adapt, and evolve, carrying the wisdom of generations into battle. My existence is not bound by mortal constraints."
Now that intrigued her—a 'living' repository of combat knowledge and skill, a machine bound to a young warrior on her path to glory. Sachmis could feel Kima's fiery determination, but inexperience was dangerous on the battlefield, especially in her vanguard. She had to decide how to proceed.
"How many enemies have you slain?" Sachmis asked, already knowing the answer. "How many battlefields have your feet touched? What victories or defeats do you claim as your own?"
Kima's cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "None, your grace." Her admission drew snickers from the nearby Drukhari, their sharp smiles taunting her, but Sachmis respected the honesty. Bravado without substance was common in the young and eager.
"If I may?" Briggs interjected, his voice deep and ethereal, resonating in the chamber. "Pilot Serif is indeed inexperienced, but her potential is immense. Her combat abilities, while yet untested, are formidable, and given the chance, she will exceed all expectations. She is an asset in the making."
"A lofty claim," Sachmis mused, her gaze still fixed on Kima. "I have use for those who seek to achieve great things in my name, but your pilot lacks experience in both war and life." She paused for a moment, weighing her options. "Yet if she wishes to taste battle, who am I to deny such ambition?"
Kima's eyes flickered with hope, but Sachmis' expression turned sharp. "You are not ready for the vanguard, girl. But I shall find you a place on the battlefield under the watchful eye of a more seasoned mentor."
Kima's face fell with disappointment, and for a fleeting moment, Sachmis felt the smallest twinge of sympathy. "Oh, don't look so glum, child," she added, her tone softening just enough. "You will have your opportunity. Perhaps when the final push comes, I may call upon you to fight directly by my side."
That seemed to soothe the young woman's frustration. She bowed her head, "As you wish, your grace."
Satisfied with the response, Sachmis decided to find Kima a mentor. "Who among you wishes to take this young warrior under your wing to teach her the art of war and ensure she becomes worthy of the battlefield?"
The room fell silent. None of the aliens would stoop to train a human girl, and even the humans in the crowd remained still, unimpressed by her inexperience. The silence stretched on until the sound of heavy footsteps broke the tension. A figure emerged from the shadows, clad in crimson and gold—the unmistakable colors of the Thousand Sons.
"If the lady commands it, I, Kazar Loia, Praetor of the XVth Legion, will take her and her companion under my protection."
Kima turned toward the towering Astartes, her eyes widening in surprise before her face flushed crimson. Clearly, the sight of the imposing, statuesque Praetor had caught her off guard, and Sachmis had to suppress a knowing smile. It was evident the young girl hadn't been around someone so impressive before.
Well, that wasn't her problem. "Good," Sachmis said with satisfaction. "You have your mentor, Kima. Bring honor and glory in my name, and prove yourself worthy of the battlefield."
Kima wisely understood the dismissal and bowed deeply. "Thank you, your grace." She spared one last glance at Praetor Loia before she and Briggs followed him from the hall.
After the day's excitement, Sachmis concluded the proceedings: "Magistrate, declare the petitioning over until tomorrow."
Sebastian stepped forward, nodding. "This session of petitioning is now concluded. Those seeking an audience with her grace must submit their requests in writing and confirm an appointment." He shot a disapproving glance at Kima's retreating figure. "There will not be any more interruptions of protocol."
After everything had been said and done, Corvus found himself in a rare quiet moment. He had already finished speaking with his sons, nephews, and a handful of others who had come to the Primarch seeking advice or favors.
Sachmis, naturally, was still engaged with her own matters and would likely remain occupied until their rendezvous later that evening. If nothing else, Corvus considered spending the interim speaking with a few individuals in the Black Library. But as fate would have it, someone else had been looking for him.
As it happened, Corvus stumbled upon them first—almost quite literally—while passing through one of the more isolated gardens in the library section. There, he observed a tense exchange between a familiar face and a far angrier one.
He spotted Kima Serif, the fiery Venusian psyker, standing beside her companion, Briggs. Opposite them, with barely restrained ire, was Sultana Suraia—the same woman who had trained Kima and whose reputation for stern discipline was well known.
"I warned you not to approach the Idol, and what did you do?" Suraia's voice was sharp, her words laced with disdain. "Are you trying to outdo your father in foolishness?!"
Kima stood with her head bowed, looking crestfallen. "Mistress Suraia, please…"
But Suraia wasn't finished. "Our Most Beloved may tolerate such insolence, but she's invested significant resources in your development. You will not squander that by throwing yourself at some xeno."
Corvus was about to leave the scene, recognizing the inappropriateness of eavesdropping when something Suraia said piqued his interest.
"Your blasted hero-worship of that alien will get you killed."
Kima's expression shifted from sorrow to anger—offended more on Sachmis' behalf than even Sachmis would likely be. "You and the others are just envious! The Most Beloved chose her and the Raven over any of you! You all lack passion and drive, but I don't!"
"Stupid girl," Suraia spat, her voice dripping with venom. "You've made your choice, and you'll live with it—or die by it. Do not return to the Conclave until I say so. If it's glory you want, then go and claim it. Or perish trying."
"Fine!" Kima turned to Briggs with fiery resolve. "Let's go."
Briggs gave a lingering, almost respectful glance toward Suraia before dutifully following the younger psyker as she stormed out of the garden. Once they had disappeared, Suraia's tense mask slipped, and she looked her age—tired, worn, and burdened by the weight of responsibility.
Corvus watched it silently, sensing that Kima had gone against her orders and was now being punished for her headstrong nature. The recklessness of youth, he mused. Still, what caught his attention more than anything was how Suraia had spoken of Sachmis—'the xeno,' said with disdain.
Making his presence known, Corvus stepped out from the shadows. It took the Sultana several seconds to realize he was there. Had this been a fight, the Lord of Ravens could have killed her long before she even registered his arrival.
"Oh, Ravenlord Corax." Suraia gave him a mock bow, her tone as dry as the desert. "It seems the Most Beloved has blessed me with impeccable timing."
Corvus quirked a single eyebrow regarding her coolly. "You were looking for me?"
"I have something to give you." Suraia held up a bundle wrapped in purple silk, but Corvus' curiosity was now piqued for an entirely different reason. His gaze lingered on her, ignoring the offering for the moment.
"It seems," he said slowly, "that you disagree with what the girl has decided."
Suraia looked at Corvus with a raised eyebrow. "Do you make a habit of eavesdropping on private conversations, Lord Corax?"
"You weren't exactly quiet," Corvus replied, his tone measured. "If you'd like, I could dissuade her—or speak to Sachmis about keeping the girl off the frontlines."
Suraia's expression told him all he needed to know: it was a bad idea. "Let her learn the hard way. I've been protecting that girl since she was a babe. And look where it's gotten me. A lifetime spent sheltering a cursed bloodline."
"Cursed?"
Suraia hesitated for a moment, her gaze softening before she spoke. "Kima is the granddaughter of Sultan Aphosion—the fool who led Venus into rebellion against the Warlord, losing us everything. After the fall, I took in his youngest daughter, raised her as my own among my children, and eventually brought Kima into this world. But that girl is as stubborn as a grox."
"She certainly has the zeal of youth," Corvus observed. "I take it Venus has already met with her? Given her a special boon from both herself and the Lord of Gears?"
Suraia's eyes narrowed, the same look of disbelief Corvus had seen from Eldar many times when a human said something blunt or foolish. "Care deeply? That's putting it mildly." She sighed. "But what's done is done. Kima wants to gain favor with the Idol."
"You mean the xeno," Corvus remarked, his tone darkening. "I gather some among the Venusians take issue with Sachmis being blessed by their 'Most Beloved.'"
Suraia scoffed. "Oh, don't pretend you wouldn't feel the same if the Warlord had favored one of your brothers over you. Our faith was born of human design and desire, and now we're expected to accept an alien leading us to beauty and glory? It's a joke. One I made clear to our Most Beloved."
"And what did the goddess say to that?"
Suraia grimaced, her voice low. "She told me to have faith. Though I'm not sure if she was talking about herself or the Idol." She looked pointedly at Corvus. "You should know many within our faith see Sachmis as nothing more than a guest in our house."
"You mean an outsider."
"Outsider implies we don't want her here at all. We accept Sachmis for who she is and acknowledge her contributions to our Most Beloved, but that doesn't change the fact she will always be an alien. And worse, she's openly disrespectful to the goddess."
Corvus couldn't argue with that. Sachmis had made no secret of her disdain for Venus, often referring to her as a "useless deity" in private conversations with Corvus and at gatherings. "Sachmis is certainly divisive. I've witnessed that firsthand."
"Which is why I'm not the one offering this to her." Suraia raised the wrapped object she had been holding. "You will."
Corvus accepted the bundle, already sensing what it contained beneath the fabric. It had a power to it. As he unwrapped it, the familiar weight of a crown pressed into his hands.
"A crown," he muttered before realizing it wasn't ordinary. The crown felt heavy, not just from its physical weight but from the palpable power imbued within it. Its surface shimmered with a blend of greenish bronze and deep gold, and alongside this, veins of Venerianite wove through the crown's band of Verdigris.
He saw that delicate engravings of flowering vines and rolling waves, symbols of love and life, spiraled upward from the base, leaving behind a faint warmth in the Verdigris as if it carried the heat of battle and the passion of love in equal measure. Along the crown's rim, small, crystalline nodes of Venerianite glowed faintly, and Corvus could sense the blessing of the Lord of Gears in these nodes.
"The nodes—what purpose do they serve?" Corvus asked, his gaze fixed on the faintly glowing crystals embedded in the crown. He turned to Suraia, who raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the observation.
"How astute of you to notice," she replied, her tone betraying a grudging respect. "Those nodes are indeed more than mere decoration. Each one acts as a repository of knowledge and experiences, storing a fragment of the past—memories, events, and even glimpses of history as seen through the eyes of the one previously wearing the crown. They are meant to grant wisdom, allowing the bearer to draw insight from the experiences of rulers who came before."
Corvus nodded, intrigued. "A fascinating design." He could now see this was no ordinary gift from Venus but something much deeper—perhaps a token of her favor to her chosen champion on top of everything else.
Suraia crossed her arms, her expression hardening. "Fascinating or not, my point still stands. You will be the one to present it to her. I'm bound to bless her coronation, and I will do that much, but I will not place that blasted crown on her head."
It wasn't the worst course of action, given the circumstances. Corvus nodded thoughtfully. "Very well." He knew Sachmis would likely appreciate being crowned by a Primarch far more than by a human, psyker or not. "Thank you for bringing this to me."
Suraia gave a sharp shake of her head, her expression still troubled. "So you say," she muttered, clearly dissatisfied. "But understand this—tell your woman that the Venusians expect much in return for our aid, and it isn't out of greed. We have little strength left, and we've invested what we had in Kima, who now depends on the goodwill of aliens and Imperials alike."
Corvus met her gaze steadily. "Sachmis will reward Kima and the Venusians for their assistance. I will personally see to it."
Suraia's eyes flashed with defiance. "We don't want your charity, Ravenlord. We've already tasted that once from the Imperium."
"I am not my Father."
The Sultana's expression hardened, her voice turning cold as steel. "Not yet. But when a child claims that, I often wonder if they realize how much of their parent lives within them, no matter how hard they try to deny it." She turned to leave, her final words lingering like a shadow. "There's nothing more to discuss. We will meet again at your woman's victory coronation." Despite her bitterness, it seemed she still had faith that Sachmis would prevail on Kalthuanesh.
Corvus gazed down at the crown in his hands, his thoughts heavy with suspicion. What schemes were the gods weaving, and what unseen moves were they making behind his back? Pieces were being shifted into place, and all the while, a storm loomed on the horizon, its dark presence ever-growing.
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@Daemon Hunter Another one for the pile.
