Warcrimes are a Tuesday

The research vessel's eighth corridor resembled a twisted combination of abattoir and machine shrine. Servitor-automata with too many limbs and not enough skin fought alongside clearly illegal Men of Iron variants, while things that might have once been Tyranids – if Tyranids were built from ceramite and rage – held the chokepoints.

Belisarius Cawl coordinated the defense, his towering form a walking arsenal of forbidden technology. "Probability of breach in sector seven increasing by 3.4% per minute," he announced, his vocalizer somehow managing to sound both bored and annoyed.

"ACKNOWLEDGED, BROTHER!" Magos Biceps bellowed from his position. The massive tech-priest, more resembling a Dreadnought than a normal Mechanicum adept, directed his 'children' – monstrous cybernetic constructs that seemed to be built entirely from muscle fiber and nightmare fuel. "THESE POINTY-EARED WEAKLINGS LACK SUFFICIENT GAINS TO BREACH OUR DEFENSES!"

Dr. Elara Chen didn't look up from her workstation, her fingers dancing across multiple holoconsoles simultaneously. Lines of code and reality-warping equations flowed around her like water. "Reality shift in 3... 2... 1... shifting local dimensional coordinates."

The shadows in the corridor rippled, and the screams of frustrated Mandrakes echoed from nowhere as their attempt to phase through shadows went wrong. Again.

"Fourteenth dimensional shift complete," Chen muttered. "Installing new quantum firewall. Someone get me more caffeine. And maybe some grenades."

Cawl's primary optical sensor swiveled toward her. "The stimulant dispenser was destroyed in the third hour of the siege. I could offer you some processed nutrients through—"

"If you try to feed me through a tube again, Belisarius, I will rewrite your base code to make you speak in UwU."

"CEASE YOUR BICKERING!" Biceps thundered, as one of his constructs literally punched a Kabalite Warrior through a wall. "WE MUST DEFEND THIS POSITION WITH HONOR! AND MASSIVE GAINZ!"

The siege had been going for what felt like weeks. Or maybe hours. Time was weird when you were constantly rewriting local physics to keep shadow-walking assassins from murdering you. The only constant was Vect's relentless assault, throwing waves of warriors against their defenses.

That's when the vox crackled to life with a familiar voice: "How are my egg heads doing over there?"

"Lord Primarch!" Chen's fingers never stopped typing. "Terrible timing as usual. We're a bit busy preventing horrible death at the moment."

"PRIMARCH!" Biceps' volume somehow increased. "WE ARE HOLDING THE LINE WITH SUPERIOR FORCE AND EXCEPTIONAL MUSCLE DEVELOPMENT!"

Cawl merely sighed, all twenty-seven of his weapons still firing. "Your timing is neither optimal nor sub-optimal, Lord Valorian. Though I calculate our chances of survival have increased by approximately 99.9% with your arrival."

"That's Cawl-speak for 'thank fuck you're here,'" Chen translated. "Please tell me you brought the big guns. Like, all of them. Preferably the ones that make things stop existing."

Franklin's chuckle carried through the vox. "Sweet Liberty's already redecorating the neighborhood. But I hear you've got a special guest out there. Thought I'd drop in and say hello."

"INDEED!" Biceps confirmed. "THE ONE CALLED VECT CONTINUES TO THROW HIS MALNOURISHED WARRIORS AT OUR POSITION! THEY CLEARLY REQUIRE A PROPER DIET AND EXERCISE REGIMEN!"

"Lord Valorian," Cawl interjected, "while your concern is appreciated, perhaps less conversation and more intervention? The probability of breach has increased to—"

A massive explosion rocked the corridor, and through the smoke came more Haemonculus, Wyches and the Occasional Kabalite Warriors.

A booming laugh came through the vox. "Come on, Cawl. Don't tell me you're not having fun? I saw those new weapons you're sporting. Very nice modifications."

"The necessity of survival has prompted some... creative solutions," Cawl admitted, almost sounding proud as one of his shoulder-mounted weapons disintegrated a squad of Wyches.

Biceps grunted as he physically threw one of his muscle-bound creations at an advancing group of Homunculi. "Lord Franklin, while we appreciate the social call, I assume extraction is imminent? Dr. Chen's reality-shifts won't hold forever."

"Actually," Franklin's voice carried that tone they all knew meant something spectacular was about to happen, "if you could hold out for about... oh, thirty more seconds?"

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

The dark spires of Lower Commorragh echoed with the sounds of distant bombardment when a voice shattered the tense atmosphere:

"LEEROOOOOY JENKIIIIIIINS!"

Vect's head snapped upward, his ancient reflexes screaming danger. The twilight sky of the Dark City suddenly blazed with golden fire, a massive burning slash cutting through reality itself. Before he could issue orders, another voice thundered:

"TACTICAL SOLUTION INCOMING!"

The psychic shockwave hit first – a concentrated burst of warp energy that cleared the landing zone like a divine broom sweeping away dust. Kabalite Warriors went flying, their perfectly disciplined formations scattered like leaves in a hurricane. The very air seemed to crystallize for a moment before shattering.

When Vect regained his footing, the scene before him defied even his centuries of experience. The Primarch of the Liberty Eagles stood in a crater of his own making, Anaris blazing in his grip. Around him, his Primeborn Captains had already engaged the Kabalite Warriors in what could only be called a massacre.

Denzel Washington's hyper-phase swords reshaped and clearly longer to cater to his increased size, carved elegant arcs through the air, each swing sending Dark Eldar warriors flying in pieces. Steven Armstrong was literally punching through squads, his Power Fists trailing electromagnetic distortions as the fists continue to be reinforced by Nanomachines. Henry, John and Vladimir stayed behind and picked off opponents from afar, Disintegration shots from Henry, Cover Fire From John and Warp Lightning from Vladimir.

"Impossible," Vect snarled, he had no time to process this tactical nightmare because eight feet of ancient Psychocrystal. He parried purely on instinct, a move he'd perfected over Centuries of combat and Intrigue. The impact nearly shattered his arms. His Prized Blade a masterwork of Dark Eldar artifice, showed hairline fractures from a single blow.

Franklin Valorian's face emerged from the settling smoke, his expression carrying that insufferable grin Vect remembered all too well. "What's wrong, knife-ears? Not happy to see an old friend?"

Another exchange of blows, each one forcing Vect back despite his supernatural speed. The Dark Eldar lord's mind raced, calculating odds, searching for advantages, finding none. Around him, his elite warriors were being systematically demolished.

"I remember you," Franklin continued, his casual tone belying the devastating power of his attacks. "You're that Dark Eldar fool I had to teach a lesson about property rights. That Webway Gate looked much better after I redecorated it with your warriors' remains."

Vect's teeth ground together as he remembered that humiliation. A supposedly easy raid turned into a slaughter when this monster had appeared with his Legion. "Your kind does not belong here, mon-keigh!"

A particularly vicious slash from Anaris shattered Vect's blade entirely, sending him stumbling back with a mangled hand. His enhanced healing was already working, but he knew he needed an exit – now.

His eyes darted to a nearby portal, one of many emergency exits he'd prepared. But the distance... the Primarch would intercept him before he could reach it. Unless...

"DRAZHAR!" Vect's voice carried through the shadows. "NAME YOUR PRICE!"

The air rippled as a figure seemingly materialized between Vect and Franklin. Demiklaives crashed against Anaris in a shower of sparks that lit up the darkness. The Master of Blades, Drazhar himself, had answered.

"This favor," Drazhar's voice rasped through his helm, ancient and terrible, "will be the price, Asdrubael."

Vect didn't waste the opportunity. He dove through the portal, reality twisting around him as he made his escape. Behind him, two legends prepared to clash.

Franklin's grin grew wider as he regarded his new opponent. "Well, well... if it isn't a Phoenix Lord. Though 'fallen' might be more accurate, wouldn't it, Arha?" He twirled Anaris in a casual salute. "Or do you prefer Drazhar now? 'The Living Sword' does have a certain dramatic flair to it."

Drazhar remained silent, but his body language spoke volumes. For the first time in centuries, the Master of Blades felt something he'd almost forgotten – uncertainty. His warrior's instincts, honed over Centuries of combat, were screaming warnings he couldn't ignore. The being before him radiated danger on a level that made even other Phoenix Lords seem tame in comparison.

"Father," Henry called out, dispatching the last Kabalite Warrior with casual efficiency, "the research vessel is secure. Cawl wants to know if you'd like him to record this for posterity."

"Tell him yes!" Franklin's voice boomed with genuine enthusiasm. "And make sure to take them to the extraction point"

The air around them seemed to grow heavier as both warriors took their measures. Franklin's armor crackled with psychic energy. Neither moved, creating a pocket of stillness in the chaos of battle around them.

"You know," Franklin continued conversationally, as if they were discussing the weather rather than preparing for legendary combat, "Your fellow Phoenix Lords are probably coming to Commorragh." He twirled Anaris with casual ease, the blade leaving trails of divine fire in its wake. "The stories say you're one of the best – the fallen Phoenix Lord of the Striking Scorpions. However..."

Franklin's grin took on a predatory edge. "If you really want to fight me equally, you might want to bring a few more. Because from where I'm standing, you're clearly lacking. Don't take this the wrong way – you're good, but not Eldanesh-type good."

The name drop was deliberate, and its effect was immediate. Drazhar's stance shifted imperceptibly – a tell that only another master of combat would notice. The air around him seemed to vibrate with barely contained violence.

For the first time in centuries, Drazhar spoke more than a whisper: "You dare speak that name? You, a mon-keigh pretender wielding a blade you barely understand?"

"Oh, I understand Anaris quite well," Franklin replied, his jovial tone carrying an edge of steel. "Just like I understand what you are, Arha. A shadow of what the Aeldari once were. The Living Sword? Perhaps. But I've got news for you – I am the Hand of Khaine himself. And your edge?" The Primarch's eyes began to glow with inner fire. "It's looking pretty dull from here."

Around them, the battle had shifted. The Primeborn Captains had formed a perimeter, keeping other Vect's forces at bay or what remains of them, while their father prepared to duel one of the deadliest beings in the galaxy. Armstrong was actually taking bets.

"So what's it going to be, Drazhar?" Franklin settled into a stance that somehow managed to look both completely relaxed and absolutely lethal. "Want to test that title of yours against someone who actually fought your greatest warrior? Because let me tell you – compared to what I've seen?" He winked. "You're just playing at being deadly."

The Living Sword's response was a blur of motion that would have been invisible to normal eyes. His demiklaives traced patterns of death through the air as he launched an attack that had killed numerous targets.

Franklin's laugh echoed through Commorragh as he met the assault with equal speed. "Now that's more like it! SHOW ME WHAT YOU'VE GOT, FALLEN ONE!"

The clash of blades roared through the jagged spires of Commorragh, a contest of skill and ferocity between two Warriors. Drazhar, struck with inhuman precision, his klaives tracing deadly arcs through the air. Yet, Franklin remained an unshakable force, his towering frame moving with an agility that defied expectations.

Drazhar lunged with a low, cutting sweep, a feint that transitioned into a thrust aimed at Franklin's flank. The Primarch shifted with uncanny ease, the blade missing by a hair's breadth, his movements deceptively measured yet faster than the eye could follow.

Anaris, the weapon in Franklin's grip, surged forward in a brutal counterstrike. Drazhar twisted his body, narrowly evading the glowing edge, though it skimmed his armor with a screech of tortured metal. They closed again, exchanging rapid strikes, each attack and parry sending echoes through the towering structures around them.

The battle carried them across a narrow bridge suspended high above the writhing chaos of Commorragh. Drazhar pressed his attack, a storm of slashes and thrusts that seemed designed to overwhelm any defense. His klaives blurred, carving the air with surgical accuracy as he sought an opening.

Franklin countered each assault with startling efficiency. He sidestepped a twin strike aimed at his chest, angling Anaris in a wide arc to intercept the follow-up blow. The force of his parry sent Drazhar skidding back a step, his klaives vibrating in his hands from the impact.

Drazhar felt an unfamiliar chill creeping into his thoughts—doubt. His opponent was not only matching him but dismantling his every move. Worse still, the sheer presence of the Primarch felt like the weight of an ancient god pressing down upon him.

Their duel carried them to a sprawling atrium, where the chaotic architecture of Commorragh shifted like a living labyrinth. Here, the shadows came alive, and from them emerged a squad of Incubi, their void-black armor glinting in the dim light. Positioned silently, they awaited their master's signal.

Seizing an opportunity, Drazhar dove low, sliding between Franklin's legs and twisting to deliver a sweeping strike meant to hamstring his foe. Franklin caught the motion, pivoting with a speed that defied logic. Anaris came down in a brutal arc, slamming into the klaive with such force that sparks ignited in a shower.

Drazhar rolled away, springing back to his feet, but the momentum was gone. Franklin advanced, each step measured, his blade a blur of precise strikes that left no room for counterattack.

Drazhar's mind worked quickly. He knew the limits of his skill and endurance. Victory was beyond reach. Survival, however, was still an option.

He executed a dazzling flurry of strikes, a masterwork of swordplay designed to overwhelm the senses. Each swing of his klaives came faster than the last, the rhythm building into a crescendo. Franklin parried and dodged with mechanical precision, his every movement fluid yet unyielding. The finale came in a perfectly executed strike aimed for Franklin's neck—only for Drazhar to twist his body mid-movement, redirecting his momentum into a spinning retreat.

Franklin paused, his massive frame silhouetted against the chaotic glow of Commorragh. He didn't follow. Instead, he lowered his blade and tilted his head, a knowing smile playing across his features. It was not a smirk of mockery but one of understanding, of complete control.

"You're no coward, Drazhar," Franklin said, his voice carrying across the chamber. "But even you know this fight isn't worth your life."

The Phoenix Lord melted into the shadows, his retreat silent but deliberate. For the first time in his existence, the Master of Blades had chosen to withdraw.

"Why not finish him, Father?" Armstrong asked, his voice carrying the weight of genuine curiosity rather than criticism. "He's their best blade master. Taking him out would-"

Franklin turned to his officers, his expression shifting from the warrior's focus to something more contemplative. "He's not my target," the Primarch replied, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. "Commorragh is." A pause, then that familiar grin returned, the one that his sons had learned to both love and fear. "Now, let's get back to razing this shit hole to the ground."

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

The command bridge of the Sweet Liberty hummed with tension as Franklin strode in, his armor still bearing marks from the duel with Drazhar. Fleet Admiral Elena Koshka's crisp salute couldn't mask the concern in her eyes. The tactical holosphere dominating the bridge's center displayed a sea of red markers – each representing losses among their forces.

"My Lord," Elena's voice carried the weight of her report, "The situation has... deteriorated. The Dark Eldar have abandoned their usual arrogance for pragmatism. They're fighting like cornered rats – but rats with archeotech teeth."

Franklin studied the tactical display, his expression darkening as he absorbed the casualty figures. One hundred thousand Astartes. Ten million Liberty Guard. Each number represented sons and daughters of Nova Libertas, warriors who had followed him into this abyss. The Primarch's jaw clenched.

"I underestimated this cesspit," Franklin admitted, his voice carrying across the command deck. "It's not just a shithole – it's a heavily defended shithole. One that's been preparing for invasions since before humanity mastered fire."

Samuel L. Jaxsen, Director of the CIA, stepped forward. "The primary Super weapons installations have been neutralized, my Lord. My agents confirmed the destructions of three reality-bombs and what appeared to be a solar harvester, secured the Black Stone Fortress, Disabled the Planet Killer Called Fireheart and cut off energy from the Reality Engine. However..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Given the labyrinthine nature of Commorragh, there could be more. The Dark City keeps its secrets well."

"And the package?" Franklin asked.

"Secured, my Lord. The Shard of Khaine is in the vault two decks below. It's... restless."

Franklin nodded, turning to face his Continental High Command. The His Captains and his military leadership stood before him, each bearing the weight of command and the responsibility for thousands of lives. His next words would determine the fate of not just this battle, but potentially the entire campaign.

"Elena," Franklin's voice carried authority tempered with respect, "Get me Aegis. If they want to play with Golden Age tech, let's show them what real Golden Age technology can do."

Aegis manifested, but as a softball-sized sphere of pure light, pulsing with subtle patterns of electric blue. The AI's choice of a more modest appearance seemed almost ironically appropriate given the gravity of what was about to be authorized.

"You called, Mr. President?" Aegis's voice carried its characteristic blend of formality and subtle irreverence, a personality quirk that had evolved over millennia of service to the Independence Sector.

Franklin, still reviewing the tactical displays showing the mounting casualties across Commorragh, nodded grimly. "The Dark Eldar are proving to be more than just raiders and torturers. We need to escalate. Deploy Level 1 Protocols for the Men of Iron."

The glowing orb pulsed once, a brief flare of crimson cutting through its blue radiance. "Initializing access to Hemophage swarms," Aegis announced, its tone shifting to something more formal, more machine-like. "Please specify target parameters."

"The Dark Eldar," Franklin stated flatly, his expression hardening as another casualty report scrolled across a nearby display.

"Target designation: Dark Eldar. Authorization protocols required for deployment of strategic-grade nanological weapons. Please proceed with identification verification."

Franklin stepped forward to the authentication panel. The process was deliberately archaic – physical checks that couldn't be spoofed by even the most advanced technology. The iris scanner hummed as it mapped his unique Primarch physiology. His fingerprints, containing genetic markers that proved his identity beyond any doubt, were recorded by ancient sensors.

"Identity confirmed: Primarch Franklin Valorian, President of the Independence Sector. Access Level: Absolute," Aegis announced. The AI's form flickered momentarily, patterns of light reorganizing as ancient warfare protocols activated. "The Men of Iron stand ready to serve. Please designate deployment zones for Hemophage swarms."

"Commorragh," Franklin replied simply.

The command center's main viewport showed Sweet Liberty's massive missile bays cycling open. What emerged weren't conventional weapons – they were delivery systems for something far worse. The missiles arced through the artificial twilight of the Dark City, their trajectories calculated to saturate the Old City and Lower Commorragh.

Throughout the command center, officials watched with a mixture of awe and horror as the missiles detonated. Instead of explosive devastation, they released clouds of microscopic machines – the Hemophage swarms, one of humanity's most terrible weapons from the Dark Age of Technology.

Aegis's orb form bobbed slightly, almost like a head shake. "I feel compelled to point out that the deployment of Hemophage swarms represents a rather dramatic disregard for what ancient records refer to as the 'Geneva Suggestions.' This would be classified as a particularly egregious war crime by historical standards."

Franklin's lips curved into a grim smile, watching as the tactical displays showed the swarms beginning their work. "War crimes?" he replied, matching Aegis's sardonic tone. "That would require the enemy to have rights."

The gallows humor masked the gravity of what they were witnessing. On the tactical displays, vast sections of Commorragh's population centers began showing critical biohazard warnings. The Hemophage swarms were ancient weapons designed to target specific genetic markers, breaking down organic matter at the molecular level. Against the Dark Eldar, they were particularly effective – their regenerative abilities and enhanced biology providing more resources for the swarms to weaponize.

"Swarm deployment at thirty percent coverage and expanding," Aegis reported. "Preliminary casualty estimates exceeding projected parameters. The Dark Eldar's enhanced physiology is actually accelerating the process. Their regenerative capabilities are being turned against them."

Fleet Admiral Koshka watched the unfolding devastation with professional detachment. "How long until we see strategic impact?"

"At current progression rates," Aegis responded, "Major Dark Eldar military capabilities in affected zones will be neutralized within six hours. However, I'm detecting signs that they're attempting to seal off sections of the city. They recognize what we've deployed."

"Recall the swarms, Aegis," Franklin commanded, watching the tactical displays as they showed Dark Eldar forces in full retreat. The devastation was absolute – entire districts of the Dark City turned into biological wastelands, and had sealed off High Commorragh.

The glowing orb pulsed acknowledgment. "Recalling Hemophage swarms from Old City and Lower Commorragh sectors. Contamination levels have exceeded tactical threshold. Dark Eldar defensive capabilities in affected zones: negligible."

The tactical hololith showed the truth of Aegis's assessment. Where there had been fierce resistance mere hours ago, now there were only dead zones. The swarms had done their work with terrifying efficiency, leaving only High Commorragh and its satellite regions still burning with the false stars of Dark Eldar civilization.

"Burn it to the ground," Franklin ordered, his voice carrying the weight of executioner's judgment. "Deploy the Phosphex weapons. I want these sections of the Dark City reduced to absolute-"

He paused mid-sentence, his expression shifting as another presence made itself known in his mind. The sensation was like molten metal pouring through his thoughts – Khaine's consciousness touching his own.

"The nobles of High Commorragh are not without resources," the war god's voice resonated in Franklin's mind. "They possess the means to tear loose this section of the Webway entirely. Strike now, before they realize their desperation might save them."

Franklin chuckled, the sound drawing curious looks from his command staff. "Seems we need to adjust our timeline," he announced. "I'll lead the assault on High Commorragh personally. Admiral Koshka, continue the cleansing operation in the lower sectors."

"And retrieve my shard," Khaine added, his psychic voice carrying a note of what might have been amusement. "Though I note you chose to fight this battle the easy way. Hemophage swarms? Where is the glory in that?"

"In my defense," Franklin muttered, knowing the war god would hear, "efficiency saves lives. My sons' lives, specifically."

"There will be battle enough in High Commorragh," Khaine assured him. "Their most dangerous warriors await you there. Their most potent weapons. Their darkest secrets."

"Don't worry," Franklin replied with a predatory grin, "you'll get your souls in High Commorragh."

Franklin's Stormbird cut through the artificial twilight of Commorragh, its armored hull reflecting the inferno below. The Old City and Lower Commorragh had become an ocean of flame, Phosphex weapons doing their work with mechanical precision. The pale green fire would burn until nothing remained, consuming even the bones of the Dark City.

Through the viewport, Franklin watched the devastation with the detached interest of a general overseeing a necessary operation. Behind his Stormbird, entire companies of Liberty Eagles advanced through the burning streets, ensuring nothing survived the cleansing.

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

In the highest spires of the Dark City, a very different scene was unfolding. The grand chamber of the Noble's Conclave, normally a place of subtle power plays and elegant threats, had devolved into something approaching panic – though none would admit to such a base emotion.

Archon Vrazkhar the Magnificent hurled a crystalline goblet against the wall, its shattering punctuating his fury. "Incompetence! Pure, unmitigated incompetence! Had Krallax's forces held their position-"

"My forces?" Archon Krallax rose from his throne, poison dripping from the blades at his fingertips. "While my warriors died holding the lower markets, your armies were nowhere to be seen. Or did you think we wouldn't notice them herding my rear elements into the paths of those molecular horrors?"

Around the chamber, other nobles watched the exchange with expressions ranging from careful neutrality to barely concealed satisfaction. The disaster unfolding below had sparked a feeding frenzy of blame and recrimination.

"Both of you prove my point," Archon Essylyx hissed, her voice cutting through the chaos. "While you played your little games of rivalry, the mon-keigh unleashed weapons we haven't seen since the Fall. Weapons that should have been contained, isolated, destroyed. Instead?" She gestured to the tactical displays showing the advancing inferno. "Instead, we fed them with our own internal warfare."

"The Hemophage swarms," another noble whispered, the words carrying a weight of ancient horror. "They remember. The mon-keigh actually still has them."

"And now they have Phosphex too," someone else added. "The pale green fires... they're everywhere."

At the head of the chamber, Archon Vhane Kyharc, his armor adorned with the bones of a thousand species, rose from his throne. His voice, when it came, cut through the babble like a blade through flesh.

"Enough," he commanded, his tone carrying the authority of one who had survived ten thousand years of Commorragh's deadliest politics. "While you bicker like newly-spawned wyches, our city burns. The mon-keigh approach High Commorragh itself, and you waste time assigning blame?"

He strode to the central tactical display, his movements carrying the deadly grace of a born predator. "We have one option remaining. The Reality Engine."

The chamber fell silent. Even the most jaded nobles felt a chill at those words.

"You cannot be serious," Archon Essylyx breathed. "The Engine hasn't been activated since-"

"Since the Fall itself," Vhane finished. "But unless you prefer to die in the green flames of mon-keigh weapons, we will use it. We will tear this section of the Webway free and hurl it at our attackers, taking them into the Warp itself if we must."

As if to punctuate his words, the chamber's viewing portals showed the approaching Liberty Eagles. Their armor gleamed in the light of the burning city, their advance methodical and unstoppable.

"Look at them," Vhane gestured. "Look at what approaches while you squabble over petty rivalries. The Interlopers comes to our doorstep with weapons from humanity's golden age. Will you die arguing over whose fault it was? Or will you help me activate the Engine and show these primitives why Commorragh has endured since before their species learned to make fire?"

The nobles looked at each other, ancient rivalries warring with the instinct for survival. Finally, one by one, they nodded. The Reality Engine would be their final card in this game of extinction.

As they moved to begin the activation rituals, none of them noticed the satisfied smile that crossed Vhane's features. In the chaos to come, opportunities would present themselves. They always did.

Above them, Franklin's forces descended toward High Commorragh like angels of death, while below, the green fires of Phosphex continued their relentless consumption of the Dark City's flesh. The true battle for Commorragh was about to begin.