The Primarch of Liberty

The Phoenix Lords stood upon the observation deck of the Stormlance, their ancient armor reflecting the sickly green flames that consumed Commoragh below. Each bore witness to what many had thought impossible - the Dark City, that labyrinth of sin and excess, burning like kindling in a cosmic fire.

Asurmen, the Hand of Asuryan, stood at the fore, his mask betraying no emotion even as his voice carried the weight of millennia. "So the Champion of Khaine proves his worth. Not since the Fall have I witnessed such destruction visited upon our kind." His hand rested upon the hilt of his sword, fingers tightening imperceptibly as he watched entire districts collapse into the Webway's void.

Karandras remained in the shadows, his voice emerging from darkness. "The Dark City has stood as a cancer in the Webway since the Fall. Its citizens believed their sins would shield them forever. Now they learn that nothing is truly beyond reach." His clawed gauntlets flexed slowly. "Even the most deeply-burrowed scorpion can be forced into the light."

"The patterns of fate shift and reform," Irillyth spoke, his spectral voice carrying an ethereal quality. "I have walked the paths of shadow and seen countless futures. This... this was hidden from all our seers. The mon-keigh primarch moves outside destiny's weave."

Amon Harakht's helm turned sharply toward a particular explosion. "The Dark City's defenses are formidable, yet they fall like paper before these flames. Our cousin-kin believed their technologies would preserve them eternal. Now those same devices fuel their pyre."

The phosphex flames cast an eerie white-green glow across the ruins of what was once considered the unconquerable Dark City. Franklin Valorian stood amidst the destruction, his armor bearing the marks of recent combat. His voice carried across the vox with casual authority: "Drop the packages in Aelindrach. Extra spicy. Those shadow-dancing bastards need to learn why you don't ambush Liberty Eagles."

The sky above the shadowy district lit up moments later, nuclear fire adding its own particular brightness to the ongoing devastation. As the explosions subsided, the air shimmered, and a Harlequin troupe materialized, their movements telling stories of destruction, rebirth, and prophecy fulfilled. Their dance spoke of futures rewoven, of darkness purged, and of ancient debts finally paid.

The air shimmered, and suddenly they were there - the Harlequins, their fluid movements telling a story of destruction and rebirth. Their dance spoke of prophecy fulfilled, of ancient dues paid in full. Before Franklin could speak, ethereal flames manifested between them, taking the form of Khaine himself. The War God's presence caused the dance to cease immediately.

"Enough." Khaine's voice resonated through reality itself. "The message is received. Ten thousand years of darkness, burned away in a day. The ledger is balanced."

The Harlequins vanished as silently as they had appeared, giving way to new arrivals. The Phoenix Lords approached, their ancient armor reflecting the fires of destruction that surrounded them. Franklin's eyes immediately found Maugan Ra, and he offered a respectful nod, which was returned in kind.

"You turned away our emissaries," Asurmen stated, his voice resonating with authority earned over countless lifetimes. "Yet here we find you, in the heart of what was once thought unassailable."

Franklin's laugh echoed across the burning ruins. "Your emissaries spoke of tests and trials, of proving worth already proven." He drove Anaris into the ground before him, the blade's impact sending ripples of green energy across the scorched earth. "But if you wish to test me personally, here and now, step forward. Let's skip the ceremonies and get to the point."

The air grew thick with power as ancient war drums began to beat – not physical sounds, but the psychic echo of Khaine's own heartbeat. Around them, reality seemed to blur, and in the corners of their vision, a towering figure of brass and blood took shape – Khaine himself, watching with interest.

Asurmen surveyed the devastation around them, his mask revealing nothing of his thoughts. The burning city reflected in his armor as he spoke, "What stands before us requires more than just the burning of a city, no matter how mighty that city might have been. We must know if Khaine's champion can wield more than just his rage."

"Then test me," Franklin replied simply, gesturing to Anaris. "The sword accepts challenges from worthy opponents."

Jain Zar moved like liquid lightning to Asurmen's side, her blade-hair chiming in harmony with the distant explosions. "The sword accepts you, but tradition demands we test its bearer." Her mask's screaming visage somehow managed to convey amusement. "Consider it a formal introduction to the family."

Fuegan's armor seemed to pulse with inner flame as he joined them. "And I would test your resolve against fire itself. One who bears Khaine's sword must be forged in the hottest flames."

"The spear against the sword," Drastanta added, his ancient weapon gleaming. "Movement and positioning – these too are Khaine's domains."

Maugan Ra remained still, his massive reaper cannon held casually at his side. "I have seen his prowess firsthand. My test has already been passed." His voice carried a hint of amusement. "Though I shall enjoy watching my siblings learn what I already know."

"As shall I," Karandras spoke from the shadows. "Sometimes observation proves more valuable than participation."

Baharroth's wings caught the phosphex light as he nodded. "The burning of this city speaks volumes. Some tests need not be repeated."

"The shadows have already judged," Irillyth added, his spectral voice carrying across the ruined landscape.

Amon Harakht simply inclined his head in acknowledgment, having seen enough in the aerial assault that had preceded the city's fall.

The very air ignited as Khaine manifested, not as a mere presence now but in a form that demanded obeisance from even these legendary warriors. The Phoenix Lords knelt immediately, their heads bowed before their god. A throne of perpetually melting and reforming obsidian rose from the ground, wreathed in divine flames that burned with the intensity of a dying sun.

The battlefield around them transformed, reality reshaping itself at Khaine's will. The burning ruins of Commorragh became an arena forged from volcanic glass and living flame.

Khaine's voice was the sound of armies clashing, of blades meeting in deadly embrace. "Rise, my children." His burning gaze fell upon the Phoenix Lords. "You wish to test my Champion? Then know this – in single combat, he has no equal among you. He has struck down Greater Daemons of the Usurper Powers. He has broken champions of the Great Enemy across his knee. He bears my mark and my blessing."

The war god's armor shifted, plates moving like cooling lava. "If you would test him, do so as warriors. Face him as you would face your greatest enemy. Hold nothing back. Fight him together, with all the skill and fury that made you legends." A smile that was more terrifying than any rage crossed Khaine's burning visage. "Only then will you honor me. Only then will you truly understand why he wields Anaris."

The four Phoenix Lords spoke as one, their voices carrying the weight of millennia: "By your will, Kaela Mensha Khaine."

Franklin lifted Anaris from the ground, the sword's flames intensifying to match the god's presence. His usual humorous demeanor had fallen away, replaced by the focus of a true warrior. "Four of the greatest warriors in history, blessed by Khaine himself." He rolled his shoulders, settling into a ready stance. "Now this is what I call a proper welcome party."

The other Phoenix Lords – Maugan Ra, Karandras, Baharroth, Irillyth, and Amon Harakht – moved to the edges of the arena, preparing to bear witness to a battle that would be spoken of for millennia to come. Maugan Ra's grip on his Maugetar tightened imperceptibly. He had seen Franklin fight before, had witnessed the perfect fusion of transhuman might and divine blessing. The others would soon understand why Khaine had chosen this son of the Emperor as his champion.

Khaine raised his burning hand, and reality held its breath. The war god's voice carried the promise of glorious violence: "Begin."

---------------------------

"BAZINGAAAA!"

The sound cut through reality like a rubber chicken across the face of dignity. Khaine, seated upon his throne of eternal flame, let out a long-suffering sigh that sent sparks cascading through the air. "So, you've been hiding here, stupid clown."

Cegorach materialized in a shower of crystalline laughter, his form constantly shifting between various outlandish costumes and masks. "Oh come now, is that any way to greet an old friend? Especially one who helped put you back together?" He pirouetted through the air, his motley trailing starlight. "I must say, you're looking quite solid for someone who was scattered across the galaxy. The whole 'avatar of burning death' aesthetic really works for you!"

"So it was you," Khaine rumbled, watching as Franklin below executed a perfect counter against Jain Zar's Glaive. "You placed the Deathsword in his path."

"BAZINGA! Give the burning man a prize!" Cegorach produced a comically large trophy from nowhere, which immediately melted in proximity to Khaine's aura. "Oops, probably should have made that flame-resistant. But yes! You would not BELIEVE how many timelines I had to sift through to find this particular thread of fate!"

Khaine's burning eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself, Laughing One."

"Oh, it's quite the cosmic joke really," Cegorach floated upside down, producing a series of crystal balls that showed various alternate timelines. "You see, in most versions of reality - and there are infinite versions, mind you - we lose. Like, ALL the time. It's honestly becoming quite tiresome. The Dark Prince wins here, the Blood God wins there, sometimes they all win together - which, might I add, is absolutely terrible for the comedy business."

"And what of Ynnead?" Khaine asked, genuinely curious.

Cegorach's expression became serious for a microsecond. "Ah, poor little death god. Always dying to make an entrance! But with the Shattered Imperium playing 4D chess with itself using only pawns, our sleeping beauty keeps hitting the snooze button. What do you call a failed god of death? A MORTALITY CRISIS! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine watched as Franklin below executed a perfect counterattack against Asurmen. "So you placed the Deathsword in his path."

"What's a cosmic comedy without proper prop placement?" Cegorach produced a miniature stage where puppet versions of the events played out. "Why did the Avatar of Khaine cross the road? Because you weren't there to stop him from getting worfed again! BAZINGAAA!"

"And my restoration? My presence here?"

"Well, being the second-strongest has its perks. You're like the universe's backup drive! What do you call a god who can actually manifest in the material plane? EMPLOYED! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine's flames flared. "The Changer of Ways. You think they planned this?"

Cegorach performed a somersault through probability. "Oh, the Big Blue Bird thinks they've got it all figured out. Always playing their games of 'Just As Planned.' But here's the thing about plans..." He produced a blueprint made of crystallized irony. "Why did Tzeentch's plans fail? Because even chaos needs an editor! BAZINGAAA!"

"They cannot control us," Khaine realized.

"Exactly! The bird who knows everything knows nothing about improvisation! What's blue and confused? A Tzeentch daemon watching interpretive dance! BAZINGAAA!"

Below, Franklin was now engaging all four Phoenix Lords simultaneously, his movements guided by both transhuman precision and divine blessing.

"Tell me about this version of Franklin," Khaine demanded.

Cegorach's smile somehow smiled. "Oh, this one's my favorite! Did you hear about the Primarch who united his sector? He had INDEPENDENCE of thought! BAZINGAAA!"

"The eleventh," Khaine mused. "In other timelines..."

"Purged faster than a mon-keigh's browser history! But this one..." Cegorach produced a highlight reel of alternate timelines. "This one's got better timing than some of my Harlequins. What do you call a Primarch who can tell jokes? A KEEPER! BAZINGAAA!"

"You have plans for him if he fails?"

"Oh, wouldn't that be the greatest joke of all? A Primarch Harlequin! What do you call a transhuman demigod in motley? A REAL SHOW-STOPPER! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine's gaze narrowed. "The Dark King has noticed him as well."

"Ah yes, the Dark King, or as I like to call him, Mr. 'I've Got Daddy Issues So I'll BECOME Daddy Issues!'" Cegorach performed a cosmic pratfall. "What do you call a god who claims he isn't a god? IN DENIAL! BAZINGAAA!"

The battle below reached a crescendo as Franklin demonstrated why he was worthy of bearing Anaris.

"You realize," Khaine said, "if this works, if we actually succeed..."

"We'll have pulled the greatest cosmic prank in history! What do you call it when you outsmart the God of Plotting? JUST AS PLANNED'T! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine actually chuckled, causing several nearby stars to go supernova. "And the Dark Prince?"

"Oh, Slaanesh has been getting too big for their fishnet stockings lately. What do you call a Chaos God who's about to get a surprise? ABOUT TO EXPERIENCE NEW SENSATIONS! BAZINGAAA!"

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"More than a Keeper of Secrets at a drama club! Speaking of which, why did the Keeper of Secrets fail theater class? Too much OVERACTING! BAZINGAAA!"

Below, Franklin executed a move that would have made even the Emperor raise an eyebrow.

"The 11th has potential," Khaine admitted.

"Potential? He's got more potential than a Warp core breach! What do you call a Primarch blessed by two gods? A REAL INVESTMENT! BAZINGAAA!"

"Two gods?" Khaine's flames flickered questioningly.

"Well, I might have given him a little gift. Nothing major, just a cosmic sense of timing and the ability to deliver a punchline that can actually kill daemons. What do you call it when you bless someone with divine comedy? A KILLER ROUTINE! BAZINGAAA!"

"So that's why his humor affects the Warp..."

"Every joke he tells creates a tiny tear in reality! Why? Because COMEDY IS TRUTH, AND TRUTH HURTS! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine watched as Franklin began to wrap up the demonstration. "And all of this... just to spite the Changer of Ways?"

"Oh no, my burning buddy, not just spite. Think BIGGER! What do you call it when you change the Great Game itself? A NEW EDITION! BAZINGAAA!"

"You're insane," Khaine stated flatly.

"Sanity is just tragedy plus time! Speaking of which, why did the Chaos God cross the multiverse? To get to the OTHER SIDE OF SANITY! BAZINGAAA!"

The battle below concluded with a display that would be remembered for millennia.

"Well," Khaine said, "he's proved worthy of Anaris at least."

"Worthy? He's more worthy than a Custodes' Pictolog feed! What do you call a Primarch with a god-weapon? UPPER MANAGEMENT! BAZINGAAA!"

"And now?"

Cegorach's smile turned predatory, though somehow still hilarious. "Now we watch as the Dark King deal with the Ruinous powers. What do you call it when a plan millennia in the making gets disrupted? COMEDY GOLD! BAZINGAAA!"

"You do realize the stakes of all this?"

"Stakes? My flame-grilled friend, we're playing for the whole cosmic barbecue! What do you call it when two gods decide to flip the script? A PLOT TWIST! BAZINGAAA!"

As they watched Franklin receive the Phoenix Lords' acknowledgment, Cegorach produced a bag of what appeared to be Warp-popcorn.

"Want some? It's flavored with the tears of seers whose predictions just got invalidated! What do you call it when destiny gets a rewrite? IMPROVISATIONAL THEOLOGY! BAZINGAAA!"

Khaine, despite himself, took a handful. "You're still a fool."

"And you're still on fire, but you don't see me commenting! What do you call two gods watching their champion rewrite history? THE BEST SEATS IN THE HOUSE! BAZINGAAA!"

The gods continued their observation, one wreathed in divine flames, the other practically vibrating with barely contained cosmic laughter, as below them, the future began to change one sword stroke at a time.

"Say," Cegorach said suddenly, "why did the Primarch bring a god-weapon to a knife fight? Because sometimes you need to OVERDRIVE the point home! BAZINGAAA!"

And somewhere in the infinite layers of reality, even fate itself had to admit that the joke was pretty good.

----------------------------

A Few Hours Later after the Liberty Eagles had left,

In the smoldering ruins of what was once the Dark City, Young Asdrubael Vect stood atop a mountain of twisted wraithbone and blackened flesh. The pale green flames of Valorian's wrath still licked at the foundations of the impossibly vast metropolis, refusing to die even in the timeless realm of the webway. The acrid smoke carried the screams of millions, a symphony of agony that would have once brought pleasure to the Drukhari. Now, it was only a reminder of their humiliation.

"Gather!" Vect's voice cut through the chaos like a poisoned blade. "Gather, you wretches, you survivors, you children of the dark!" His lean figure, silhouetted against the burning skyline, drew the attention of the scattered remnants of his people. They emerged from the shadows like wraiths – broken Kabalites, disfigured Wyches, and even the usually reclusive Haemonculi, their flesh-crafted bodies reflecting the sickly glow of the eternal flames.

"Look upon what remains of our eternal city!" Vect's voice dripped with calculated venom. "Look upon what the mon-keigh 'liberator' has wrought!" He spat the word 'liberator' as if it were poison on his tongue. "The so-called Eagle of Liberty, who claims to free the enslaved, has brought only destruction to our domain!"

The gathered Drukhari hissed and snarled, their pride wounded more deeply than their immortal bodies ever could be. Vect raised a hand, and silence fell immediately.

"I was there," he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper that somehow carried across the ruined landscape. "I saw him come, this Valorian, this Varrach'Tanara." The curse rolled off his tongue in their ancient language, and the assembled Drukhari shuddered at its power. "He came not as a warrior, but as a force of nature."

"While the noble houses played their games of status and superiority, I prepared. While they dismissed the rumors of the mon-keigh's approach as beneath their notice, I gathered intelligence. I survived not through luck, but through foresight."

He gestured to the still-burning ruins around them. "The Dark Eagle, Shaiel Nar'Vaul, thought to break us with this attack. Instead, he has cleared the way for our evolution. The weak have burned. The foolish have perished. What remains will be forged into something far more terrible than what came before."

"I alone saw what truly happened atop the highest spire," Vect continued. "Valorian, this Shaiel Nar'Vaul, this Dark Eagle, he did not simply destroy our city. He rewrote its very existence. The flames he unleashed burn still, and they will burn forever, a eternal reminder of our greatest defeat."

A young Archon, his armor still smoking from the battle, dared to speak. "Then we are finished. The Dark City is lost."

Vect moved with impossible speed, his blade appearing at the Archon's throat. "No," he hissed. "We are Drukhari. We are spite given form, hatred given purpose. We will rebuild, we will rise, and we will remember." He released the Archon and addressed the crowd again. "Let every soul in this shattered realm hear these words! From this day forward, Franklin Valorian shall be known as Valorian Varrach'Tanara – the Accursed One!"

The assembled Drukhari took up the cry, their voices mixing with the sound of burning wraithbone and crackling flames. Vect raised his voice above the chorus of hatred:

"Let his name become our curse! When you would damn your enemies, speak of the Dark Eagle! When you would invoke destruction, call upon Valorian's flame! Let every child born in our new realm learn to hate the sound of his name!"

He began to weave the curse, his voice taking on the rhythmic quality of ancient Aeldari poetry:

"Shaiel d'lanath! The Eagle upon thee!

Shaiel Nar'Vaul shevarr ilithrak! May the Dark Eagle feast on your heart!

Laiheth dra'aneth Commorragh! Your Kabals will burn like Commorragh!

Valorianir sar'athor! By Valorian's flame, you are undone!"

A Haemonculus, his flesh-crafted modifications still smoking from the psychic fire, spoke up. "And what would you have us do, young one? Our laboratories are destroyed. Our specimens are ash. Our art is in ruins."

Vect's smile was razor-sharp. "Art? You call your tedious experiments art? True art is in survival. True art is in turning defeat into opportunity. The Noble Houses are gone—their ancient bloodlines reduced to cinders by Valorian's flames. Their absence creates... possibility."

He spread his arms wide, encompassing the burning ruins. "Look around you! The old order burns in pale fire. The ancient houses that would never have accepted change, never have adapted, are now nothing but ash in the wind. Their deaths have created space for something new. Something stronger."

A Kabalite Warrior stepped forward, his armor bearing the markings of three different now-dead Kabals. "And what would that be?"

"A new Commorragh," Vect's eyes blazed with ambition. "Not built on the rotting foundations of ancient bloodlines, but forged in the flames of survival. The Primarch sought to break us, but in doing so, he has only cleared the way for our evolution."

He began to descend the wreckage, each step measured and purposeful. "The Noble Houses would never have united. They were too proud, too wrapped in their ancient feuds. But now? Now we have something they never had—a common enemy. Valorian the Accursed has given us a gift wrapped in destruction. He has given us purpose."

Reaching the ground level, Vect moved among the crowd, his voice dropping to an intimate whisper that nonetheless carried to every ear. "Each of you bears the mark of survival. Each of you has looked into the face of annihilation and refused to die. That makes you useful. That makes you worthy of the new Commorragh we shall build."

He stopped before a group of younger warriors, their armor still bearing the proud colors of houses that no longer existed. "Strip off those colors. They belong to the dead. From this day forward, there is only survival. Only power. Only the future we carve from the ashes of our past."

A Sybarite, her face marked with ritual scars, called out: "And who would lead this new Commorragh? You?"

Vect's laugh was like broken glass. "Lead? No. I have no interest in the obvious trappings of power. Let others wear crowns and sit on thrones. I seek something far more... fundamental." He turned to address the entire gathering. "I offer you a choice—not between masters, but between existence and extinction. The Primarch has shown us that the old ways lead only to death. Adapt or burn—those are the options before us."

He began to pace again, his voice rising with passionate intensity. "The Eagle thinks he has broken us. Let him think so! Let him believe that his flames have consumed our essence along with our city. We shall rebuild in secret, in shadow deeper than any we have known before. And we shall learn from this defeat."

"What would you have us learn?" someone called from the crowd. "That we are weak?"

"No!" Vect's response cracked like a whip. "That we must become stronger! The Noble Houses believed themselves invincible in their shadowed realm. They were wrong. So we shall forge something new—a society built not on the assumption of supremacy, but on the knowledge of vulnerability. A culture that understands that true power lies not in tradition, but in adaptation."

He drew his sword again, holding it high so the pale-green flames still consuming the city reflected off its surface. "I say let them call him the Scourge of Shadows—Taron'Khainath! Let them whisper of the Dark Eagle—Shaiel Nar'Vaul! Let every curse and every hatred be fuel for our resurrection. When your children ask why we hide in deeper shadows, tell them of Valorian the Accursed. When they ask why we trust no one, speak of the day the Eagle's fire pierced our veils."

The crowd had drawn closer now, their eyes reflecting the burning city and something more—hunger. Ambition. Purpose.

"The Noble Houses are dead," Vect continued, his voice now barely above a whisper, forcing them to lean in to hear. "Their death opens the way for something new. Something that will ensure no Eagle, no matter how mighty, can ever burn us again. I offer you not leadership, but direction. Not orders, but opportunity."

He sheathed his sword with a decisive motion. "Go. Spread through what remains of our domain. Find others who survived. Bring them here. But speak not of rebuilding the old Commorragh—that city is dead, and good riddance to it. Speak instead of vengeance. Speak of a new order rising from these ashes. Speak of shadows so deep that no fire can penetrate them."

As the crowd began to disperse, energized with new purpose, Vect allowed himself a small, private smile. The Noble Houses would never have accepted his rise to power. Their destruction had been necessary. And if it took the wrath of a Primarch to accomplish that destruction... well, that was simply the price of progress.

He looked up at the burning spires one last time. "Burn bright, Eagle of Liberty," he whispered in the ancient tongue of Commorragh. "Your fire has cleared the way for my ascension. When next we meet, you shall learn that some shadows cannot be burned—they simply grow deeper."

Valorian the Accursed has set the Dark Eldar Back by Ten Thousand Years, by Razing Commorragh to the ground.