The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 133: Ashes and Shadows



The Third Temple burned beneath a sky stained with unnatural colors, its corrupt spires cracking under the relentless bombardment of Liberty Eagle strike craft. Franklin Valorian stood amidst the devastation. his armor reflecting the fires of purification that raged around him. The Last Word hung at his side, while Anaris thrummed with the fury of a God, its surface rippling with patterns that spoke of ancient Aeldari might.

The air itself seemed to scream as Orbital Bombardment came from the Sweet Liberty and her fleet, carving surgical strikes through concentrations of Slaaneshi daemons. Keeper of Secrets, greater daemon of the Dark Prince, attempted to marshal its forces, but found itself facing the full fury of a Primarch's wrath. The creature's multiple arms whirled in a deadly dance, each holding a blade that could easily bisect any Space Marine - yet it faced something beyond it's strength.

Franklin moved like lightning made manifest. Anaris met the daemon's blades in a cascade of sparks that spoke of colliding realities. Each clash sent shockwaves through the corrupted ground, creating craters in the already scarred earth. The Keeper's eyes, filled with eldritch knowledge and forbidden desires, widened in something approaching fear as it realized too late the true nature of its opponent.

"LIBERTY OR DEATH!" The war cry echoed across the battlefield as Liberty Guard units holding in perfect formation, their Combi Bolters creating corridors of absolute destruction through ranks of daemonettes. Doomsday Grav Tanks, decimated the opposing army in coordinated fire. The flashes of light burned with a golden tinge, as if the Emperor's own light had been captured and weaponized.

The Keeper of Secrets made its final mistake, launching a desperate assault at Franklin's exposed flank. In one fluid motion, beyond the speed of mortal sight, Anaris described an arc of pure light. The daemon's head, still wearing an expression of sublime arrogance, tumbled through the air before both it and its body dissolved into oblivion.

It was then that John Ezra's voice cut through the vox: "My Lord, Dark Eldar signatures detected on multiple vectors. They're using the temple's destruction as cover for their approach."

Franklin's enhanced vision caught the movement - Drukhari jetbikes, their riders leaning low over baroque control panels, weapons already tracking a squad of Liberty Guard who were finishing off the last knots of daemonic resistance. Time seemed to slow as the Primarch raised the Last Word. His eyes blazed with internal fire, golden light spilling from them like solar flares. One pull of the trigger, one perfectly calculated shot - the bullet split apart in mid-flight, becoming ten separate projectiles, each finding its mark with devastating precision. The jetbikes exploded in a chain of destruction, their riders atomized before they could even register their doom.

The battle transformed then, shifting from daemon-hunting to a new kind of war. The Dark Eldar attacked with all the sadistic creativity their race was infamous for. Ur-ghoul packs burst from hidden pockets of the webway, their pale forms writhing with unnatural hunger. Clawed Fiends bounded across the battlefield on powerful limbs, while Helspiders skittered through the ruins, seeking prey. Above, Razorwings wheeled and dove, their sharp cries cutting through the din of battle.

But the Liberty Eagles were ready. Surface-to-air missile batteries, carrying Flak missiles, Lance seeking missiles, activated in perfect synchronization, their targeting systems guided by the mechanical precision of golden age tech. The sky itself seemed to ignite as Thousands of missiles traced elegant death-paths through the air. Flak tanks added their own fury to the barrage, filling the air with such density of fire that it appeared like solid clouds of fury.

The grotesques came next, twisted abominations that had once been living beings before the Haemonculi worked their horrible art. Their massive, mutated forms lumbered forward, accompanied by Wracks who moved with the delicate precision of torture-artists. Behind them floated Talos Pain Engines, their organic components pulsing with malevolent life.

Yet for all their horror, they faced an army that had been forged in the crucible of countless wars. Liberty Guard veterans, laid down overlapping fields of fire. Every position had been calculated by Director Jaxsen's tactical matrices, every firing lane pre-sighted and prepared. The Dark Eldar found themselves channeled into killing grounds where the combined firepower of Guard and Astartes created zones of absolute death.

Franklin watched from his vantage point, his transhuman mind processing battlefield data at impossible speeds. He saw the pattern in the enemy's attack - how they sacrificed their beasts and slaves first, probing for weaknesses. The Beast Masters remained distant, directing their charges from safety, while Kabalite Warriors waited for opportunities to strike at exposed flanks.

Then came the shadows. Franklin felt them before he saw them - Mandrakes, those strange entities that existed between realms. They moved like liquid darkness, their bodies seemingly made of living shadow. Their attempt at ambush was perfect by any mortal standard, approaching unseen through dimensions that existed just adjacent to reality.

But Franklin was far from mortal. Anaris moved in a circular arc, its blade describing a perfect circle of golden light. The Mandrakes, caught in mid-strike, found their shadowy forms bisected by ancient Aeldari psychocrystal. Unlike their normal deaths, which usually left them to dissolve back into shadow, Anaris's touch turned them to dust - a true death from which there would be no return.

The battle continued to rage across three fronts, with John Ezra commanding the anti-chaos operations while Jaxsen directed the ground forces against the Dark Eldar incursion. Above Battlefleet Liberty was engaging in a winning void war.

When the retreat finally came, it was the Dark Eldar who broke first. Their losses had been catastrophic, their carefully laid plans shattered against the immovable object that was Franklin Valorian and his Liberty Eagles. The surviving beasts were called back, Kabalite Warriors vanished into flickering webway pockets, and the shadows themselves seemed to retreat from the battlefield.

Franklin watched them go, Anaris still crackling with energy in his grip. The battlefield around him was transformed - craters from orbital strikes, still-burning promethium and phosphex fires, the dissolving remains of daemons, and the twisted wreckage of Dark Eldar war machines. His Liberty Eagles and Guard moved with practiced efficiency, securing the area and establishing defensive positions in case of another attack.

The Third Temple's cleansing was complete, but Franklin knew this was merely the opening move in a larger game. The Dark Eldar had committed significant forces to this attack, suggesting a level of coordination that was unusual for their fractious race. His mere presence in the webway alone had united them, driven them to take such risks.

As the last of the Drukhari retreated, Franklin activated his command vox. "Jaxsen, begin full spectrum analysis of the battlefield data. I want to know everything about their attack patterns, their unit compositions, and especially any unusual tactical formations. John, coordinate with Jaxsen to establish a predictive model for their next move. They'll be back, and next time, they won't waste their fodder testing our defenses."

The responses came back crisp and immediate, his commanders already moving to execute his orders. Above, the Sweet Liberty's massive form blocked out the stars, its weapon batteries still glowing from recent discharge. Another battle won, but the war - this strange, new conflict with the Dark Eldar - was just beginning.

In the twisted spires of New Commoragh, where shadow and malice danced an eternal waltz, the minor Archon Khyress dragged his broken body through the serpentine corridors of Lady Malys's palace. Blood - his own, for once - left a trail of iridescent droplets on marble floors that seemed to drink the liquid with eager thirst. The wounds he bore were badges of survival, each telling its own tale of narrow escape from the Liberty Eagles' killing grounds. The palace itself was a monument to calculated excess, its architecture an impossible fusion of beauty and cruelty. Crystallized screams formed delicate archways, while fountains of stolen souls cast their ethereal light across walls decorated with moving murals of eternal torment. Even the air carried weight here - thick with poisonous promise and perfumed

malice.

Incubi guards flanked the approach to Lady Malys's throne room, their armor drinking in what little light reached these shadowed halls. Their helmets, crafted in the visage of the Eldar War God, betrayed no emotion as they watched Khyress approach. Each warrior stood perfectly still, yet radiated such lethal intent that even battle-hardened raiders gave them wide berth. The Klaivex, leader of Lady Malys's Incubi retinue, stepped forward with liquid grace. His armor, more ornate than his brothers', bore the scars of a thousand duels - each mark a testament to victories over those who had failed to show proper respect to his mistress. The massive Klaive in his hands hummed with barely contained energy, eager to separate soul

from flesh.

"You are expected," the Klaivex's voice emerged from his helm like silk over steel. "Mind your protocols, lesser one, or I shall mind them for you."

Khyress felt the phantom pain of his own Incubi's death - his sole guardian, purchased with decades of careful hoarding, had been reduced to atoms by Liberty Eagle fire. Such protection was beyond his means now, and its absence left him feeling naked before these supreme

killers.

The throne room itself was a study in calculated intimidation. Floating platforms held writhing sculptures crafted from still-living flesh, their surfaces rippling in patterns that spoke of infinite agony. The air was heavy with exotic toxins - not enough to kill, but sufficient to keep visitors alert with the knowledge that every breath could be their last. "Speak," Lady Malys commanded, her voice a velvety drawl that promised both ecstasy and annihilation. Her bladed fan traced languid, hypnotic arcs through the air, each movement deliberate and mesmerizing, as if the fan were an extension of her very will. The subtle rustle of her robes, woven from shadow and the faint shimmer of captured starlight, added to the disorienting beauty of her presence. Beside her, Dracon Naezir stood with the rigid posture of one who had survived countless assassination attempts through perfect vigilance.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Khyress swallowed, his throat working against the fear that threatened to steal his voice. "My Lady, I have witnessed the Dark Eagle's work firsthand. They move with purpose through the Webway, sealing breaches with methodical precision. But they are not alone."

Lady Malys tilted her head, the movement languid and feline, her lips curving into a smile that was both inviting and terrifying. "Continue."

"There are others - Craftworld Aeldari in pure white armor, moving with the certainty of zealots. And Harlequins, my Lady, their masks reflecting impossible colors as they dance through combat. They follow the Liberty Eagles as if..." he hesitated, his voice faltering under her unblinking gaze, "as if they share some common purpose." "Fascinating." Lady Malys rose from her throne with a grace that seemed almost supernatural, her movements slow and sinuous, each step a calculated performance of allure and menace. Her armor, clung to her form like liquid midnight, catching the dim light and refracting it into an iridescent play of color that made it impossible to look away.

"And the next target?" she purred, her voice dripping with silken curiosity. "The Architect of Fate's breach, my Lady. They move with inevitability, sealing each portal as

if following some grand design beyond our comprehension." Lady Malys approached him, her hips swaying in a motion so smooth it was hypnotic, her eyes

gleaming with a predatory light. Her bladed fan lifted his chin with delicate cruelty, forcing him to meet her gaze. The edge kissed his skin, drawing a single crimson bead of blood that traced a languorous path down his neck. Her smile deepened, a mask of pleasure and malice. "Your rival, as promised, has been eliminated. His realm now lies in ruins, ready for... new management."

Relief flickered across the Khyress face, but it was short-lived. The burning sensation that

began at the base of his skull was almost gentle at first, like the teasing caress of a lover, before it exploded into all-consuming agony. He collapsed forward, his body already beginning to dissolve from within.

"These vat-grown generations," Lady Malys mused, stepping over the dissolving remains with the languid grace of a cat surveying its prey. Her voice was soft, almost dreamy, yet

brimming with derision. "So eager to please, so ready to believe in promises. Don't you agree,

Naezir?"

Her Dracon shifted slightly, his every movement as measured and deliberate as hers. "The fires of Old Commoragh burned away most of the Trueborn, my Lady. These new ones lack

the... refined education of their predecessors." "Malys's laugh echoed like a silver blade sliding from its sheath-soft, deadly, and deliberate. "Long live the Dark Eagle," she murmured, her fingers tracing idle patterns on the crystalline surface of the window. "Without his purging flames, I might never have risen so...

effortlessly."

She turned to Naezir, her eyes glittering like the edge of a poisoned blade. "Tell me what you know of him this Franklin Valorian and his Independence Sector."

Naezir chose his words carefully, aware that one misstep could mean his end. "The attack on Old Commoragh remains controversial. Some say the Lords of Twilight provoked the Imperium's wrath during their Great Crusade. Others claim the Dark Eagle simply saw an opportunity to prove himself against his brother Primarchs. What we know for certain is that he achieves whatever he sets his mind to, with a thoroughness that borders on obsession."

Malys's eyes narrowed, the faintest trace of a smirk tugging at her lips. "You would betray

me, wouldn't you, Naezir?"

"My lady, I-"

Her laughter cut him off, sharp and laced with malice. "Of course you would. It's in our nature.

Trust is a rare and fragile thing here." She moved closer, her steps deliberate, her presence oppressive. "But as long as I hold the reins of power, your betrayal remains... theoretical." Naezir bowed slightly, the movement masking the tension that rippled through his frame. He

had seen firsthand how quickly Malys could turn from amusement to execution, Her presence was overwhelming, her scent a heady mix of venomous flowers and bloodied steel. Naezir fought to steady his breathing as the weight of her power settled over him, seductive and suffocating in equal measure. "Shall I continue, my lady?" he asked.

"By all means," she replied, turning back to the window, her reflection now a shadowy twin

watching over her shoulder.

"Franklin Valorian is President of the Independence Sector, a state both autonomous and

loyal to the Imperium of Man. By all accounts, his leadership has transformed a fractured realm of civil strife into a paradise. Raids on their territories are nearly futile-his forces pursue us even through the Webway. The few Archons who've dared to strike his worlds have faced utter annihilation. His armies... they've mastered technologies beyond the comprehension of most Mon-keigh. They've even reverse-engineered Necron technology" At this, Malys's fingers stilled. The ancient menace of the Necrons, those rivals who had

nearly undone her people during the War in Heaven, was no mere historical curiosity. Her eyes flickered with a new intensity as Naezir pressed on.

"The Independence Sector's technological prowess rivals the finest craftworlds, my lady. Its influence within the Imperium is undeniable-they call it a Managed Democracy. Valorian himself is..." He paused, the word clearly distasteful. "...loved. Revered, even. A public

servant to his people."

Malys turned, her brow arched in mock surprise. "A public servant? How delightfully alien."

"It is an unusual concept," Naezir admitted, his tone neutral. "From what we gather, his

citizens adore him. They call him noble, humorous, and fair. He wields power, yet claims to serve those beneath him." "Interesting," Malys murmured, though her tone carried no small amount of irony. She began to pace, her mind crafting possibilities. "And the war effort?"

"The casualties have been massive. This third attack has left many lesser Kabals in ruins, and

the Beast Masters report dwindling resources as do the Haemonculi. The Liberty Eagles have suffered some losses, primarily to Mandrake attacks, but..." Naezir paused, choosing his next words carefully, "the Dark Eagle has personally slain every Archon and Incubi who've faced

him in single combat."

A smile played across Malys's features. "The Hand of Khaine, as our Craftworld kin name him.

They say Kaela Mensha Khaine himself resides within that sword of his - Anaris." Her fingers

traced patterns in the air, as if writing secrets in invisible ink. "Rumors, of course, but our Craftworld cousins are rarely given to exaggeration in such matters." "What is our next move, my lady?"

Lady Malys's laughter rippled through the chamber, a sound that made shadows dance and

reality tremble. "We test the waters, Naezir. I wish to know this demigod of war personally." Her gaze shifted, sharp and piercing, as if trying to unravel an unseen web. "What of his

ultimate intentions? Does he seek to reduce us to ashes, as he did Old Commoragh? Or is there more to this Dark Eagle than mere vengeance?"

Naezir hesitated, choosing his words with care. "Uncertain, my lady. The destruction of Old Commoragh was... decisive, but it was not without purpose. He is known to favor pragmatism over mindless annihilation. Diplomacy, however slim the chance, may yet hold some appeal to him."

Malys's expression flickered, a glimmer of mischief in her eyes. "Diplomacy? With a Primarch? How utterly provocative." She turned, her steps deliberate and graceful, to a table laden with ancient relics, her fingertips brushing against a twisted shard of wraithbone.

"Prepare my retinue, Naezir. We shall approach not as adversaries, but as emissaries." "Emissaries, my lady?" Naezir's voice betrayed the faintest hint of unease.

"Yes, Naezir," she said, her tone languid but edged with steel. "Even a demigod must observe

the courtesies of civilization. Select only the finest - the most beautiful, the most cunning, and the most dangerous. Let our presence speak of both elegance and menace, a warning and

a promise."

and

As the firefalls painted her form in shades of unearthly light, she seemed to embody all that defined the Drukhari - the perfect blend of grace and cruelty, beauty and horror, wisdom madness. In that moment, Malys was no mere Archon; she was a force of nature, poised on the

edge of destruction and opportunity.

"And Naezir," she added with a sly smile, "ensure our gift for the Dark Eagle is... fitting.

Something that reflects both our power and our potential as allies."

Naezir bowed low and retreated, acutely aware that he had just witnessed the first step of a

gamble that could redefine the fate of their race.

Left alone, Lady Malys gazed out at the impossible cityscape of New Commoragh, her reflection shimmering like a mirage in the crystalline glass. "Annihilation or alliance," she murmured, her voice soft but brimming with intrigue. "Let us see, Franklin Valorian, which fate you will offer us under your golden gaze."