Black Glimmer

I am memory. So many years have passed that I no longer feel like a living being, but a tapestry of recollections. Yet I still exist—Kaed repeated these words to himself so often they became a prayer of sorts.

After all, Kaed had spent most of his conscious life as an Incubus—and if there was one thing the sons of Arhra excelled at, it was remembrance. Their progenitor, the Father of Scorpions himself, had bequeathed this skill to his followers along with fragments of his wrathful spirit. His memory, his ability to hoard slivers of forbidden knowledge, seeped into every Incubus alongside their combat arts and the ancient rites of their order.

Kaed was old—older than any other Hierarch of his Temple. But it mattered little. He had long ceased to hunger for higher rank. The position he now held—had held for centuries—was enough. He could have named the exact number of years if asked, but no one ever asked.

It had been an age since anyone dared question Kaed, the Black Glimmer. A Hierarch’s status, and the new name it bestowed, meant that he was usually the one demanding answers. But it had not always been so.

Once, the Incubus Kaed—just Kaed then, without titles or honorifics, without the resplendent name granted upon joining the Temple’s circle of fathers—had been expected to account for himself to any employer who deigned to ask.

Even if that employer was a spoiled child who amused herself by tormenting her guards with endless questions.

"Tell me something interesting," came the bright, piping voice—not petulant, but brimming with insatiable curiosity. The daughter of Archon Elyrai addressed Kaed this way often. To others, the girl’s questions were pure torture—servants feared displeasing their little mistress, other guards maintained a respectful distance lest they invoke the mother’s wrath… but Kaed always knew how to entertain her.

Her name was Kelimris. And Kaed was her personal guardian—having left the Temple walls for the first time in decades, already bearing the rank of Klaivex. The other Incubi she had previously interrogated in vain were his squad.

"What would you have me tell you, child?" Kaed replied lazily, as was his habit.

"Something about heroes."

"A tale? A song? Best ask a trained slave for that, little lady. Your radiant mother, the glorious Archon Elyrai, has no shortage of such entertainers. Just don’t kill the servant outright if the song bores you—punishment can be more instructive than immediate execution."

To any perceptive adult, it would have been clear that behind his impassive helm, Kaed was barely suppressing a smirk, though his tone remained grave.

"They’re all boring—I’ve heard them a hundred times," Kelimris pouted, stamping her foot. Despite her diminutive stature and tender years, it was obvious: the child had inherited her mother’s stubbornness. One day, Kel would surely take her mother’s place.

"You are most persistent, Lady Kel," Kaed replied coolly.

"Do you wish to test my patience?" The girl planted her hands on her hips, puffing out her cheeks—then burst into laughter.

It was mostly a game. An old, beloved game of Kel’s, born spontaneously yet never failing to delight her. So subtly did it mimic the exchanges between a spoiled trueborn child and her bodyguard that none would suspect the double meaning beneath.

Sometimes Kel would command Kaed to remove his helm—then scrutinize his impassive face for hints of a smile or flickers of emotion. More often than not, she found them—the faint twitch of pale lips, the slightest crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Either Kaed allowed it, or the future Archon Kelimris was simply a keen student.

After all, Kaed was among the best of the best when it came to observing minutiae… and when forced to mind a restless child, one inevitably devised ways to occupy a nobleborn’s time with tasks requiring effort and patience.

Or, failing that, one told stories—weaving together old legends, embellishing gossip with outrageous details, crafting new tales each time. Because she despised repetition, and the songs of slave-poets had long since grown stale to her. Target practice bored her quickly, and her inquisitive mind demanded more than crude amusements.

"Once, there was a lord… no, a prince. In ancient days, in an age before three suns hung over the Dark City—or perhaps before the City itself existed…"

So Kaed would begin, remembering that while Kel loved varied tales, their openings must always be strange and enigmatic. What could be more tantalizing to a child’s mind than the idea of a time when Commorragh might not have been?

And besides—it was safer. Should anyone question the origins of Kaed’s stories, he could always claim they were mere fables.

Sometimes Kel demanded names for these nameless heroes—and Kaed invented new ones each time. Only once did he mentally chastise himself—when he called one "Arthanael." It should have been harmless; among the "boring" tales Kel despised was a scholar with a similar name. But the girl caught the hesitation in his voice.

Ah, so you’ve been making it all up! she declared triumphantly. There were no such heroes! No warrior-princesses, no cunning foes—none of them! And there couldn’t have been a time before the Dark City!

Kaed conceded gracefully. You’re quite right, my lady. I invented them. Punish me if you wish.

"I will," Kel grumbled. "You’re forbidden to speak to me until I say otherwise."

Her sulk was brief—but she never demanded stories again. She was growing older, after all. Perhaps it was for the best. Even the finest steel could crack. Even the discipline of an aging Incubus could waver, like wax beneath scorching fingers.

Especially when one had spent too long dwelling on why—after decades in the Temple, training young adepts in Arhra’s path—he had taken a personal contract again. Guarding the daughter of a minor Kabal’s Archon until her coming of age.

Kaed told himself firmly: No. This is the last such contract. Not because he was growing attached to the girl—no. But because in her, this stubborn, capricious yet clever and quick-witted child, he saw echoes of a past that might have been his own. And she, in turn, reminded him of someone else: another Kaed, the one who had not willingly become a Temple recluse. Or perhaps not himself at all—but her, the one he once considered his most trusted comrade. They held the same rank now, Klaivex. But Nylia, that same comrade, had become a squad leader in her youth, while Kaed had not.

So he crafted his secret mantra of memory. I am memory, he repeated. But I still exist. I am myself, even if I walk paths that belong to another’s unlived life. Even if I walk my own paths—paths just as unreal, for all that led to them is past.

And in darker moments, he added: I remember, but I do not regret—regret is weakness. The children of Arhra know no weakness, no pity, no sorrow.

He truly regretted nothing now. Incubi were taught to carve through adversity like steel through flesh—unyielding, unfeeling. Yet he refused to forget. And as for his choices, even the gravest—never once did remorse cross his mind.

Not even during the fall of the Kabal of the Pierced Star, whose Archon he had served since earning his full Incubus rank. Not long after the nameless youth called Kaed had adorned his armor with a spirit-stone—cracked, blazing orange, its fractures branching like veins. Even after the ritual that bound the defeated foe’s essence to eternal torment, it pulsed with a sullen, angry light.

The Kabal of the Pierced Star was a Kabal of highborn Drukhari—its heart, its strength, its living core was the ancient House Laetris. And the throne in the highest spire’s grand hall, black and glimmering with sickly green, had always been occupied by a lord of Laetris blood.

As was tradition since Asdrubael Vect’s tyranny began, the right to ascend that throne was won in endless bloodshed. Kabals warred amongst themselves, drowned in treachery—yet victory always went to the strongest, the cleverest, the most cunning. They called it "the Path-of-Splinters"—Tillian ai-Kelethril—the art of forging greatness from ruin. In truth, it meant oceans of blood. But in the Dark City, blood was life.

Kaed knew no other. Nor did his master, the young Lord Artalion.

On the day Kaed stepped beyond the Temple’s threshold at his lord’s heels, his massive klaive slung casually over one shoulder, Lord Artalion was not yet Archon nor head of his House—but soon he would be. Treading upon the shattered plans, ambitions, and—of course—the bleeding corpses of rivals.

For such was the way of the Dark City. Such was the order Vect had decreed. Such was life in the highest spires of Kabalite nobility and the lowest gutters where monsters and wretches crawled. Always. And so it would remain—for though many hands had risen to strike the great tyrant dead, none had completed the blow.

Some had come dangerously close. None who valued their lives spoke of it afterward. Many dared not even remember.

Kaed was not one to cower from his own memories—and in the years that followed, he often pondered his Archon’s mistake. Each time, he concluded there had been none. Only the caprice of fate, casting dice against so cunning a scheme.

For sometimes, even the most masterful strike misses its mark—not for lack of skill, but by chance.

Any Incubus, even the youngest, knew that.

***

Sometimes, even the most meticulously planned strike cannot be completed—simply because not all variables can be foreseen. Even if, for years, one had honed the most cunning scheme, calculating each move with precision, gathering whispers of intelligence like poison dripped into every calculated step.

House Laetris had bowed its head beneath Vect’s iron grip during his ascent to the throne of Commorragh—gracefully, waiting to see the victor of that ancient slaughter before acknowledging the right of the strong. Even if all were meant to believe this order eternal, it did not mean noble blood forgot whose hands had spilled it to pave the tyrant’s path.

But Vect understood this perfectly. And so, those who accepted his rule without protest or frequent rebellion were not spared his suspicion. If anything, their compliance bred greater distrust. And sometimes, the Tyrant indulged that paranoia.

Like the day the Archon of the Kabal of the Pierced Star returned from a routine raid—subjugating worlds already marked by House Laetris’ banners but deemed insufficiently obedient. In a foul mood—the raid had been adequate, but only just—Lord Laetris strode from the docks into the palace halls, only to find the central spire eerily silent.

The Archon glanced around. Nothing. No one emerged to greet him. Irritation prickled—was this how a sovereign was welcomed home? Then, irritation gave way to gnawing dread. Suppressing the unease, Lord Artalion barked:

"Kaed!"

His voice echoed through the hollow vaults of the spire’s passages. No answer came.

"Kaed! Present yourself—now! By Ur-Ghul’s filth, where are you?"

Still, the Incubus did not appear. The helm’s internal vox-link was dead—discovering this, the Archon tore off his helmet with a sharp jerk of his head. If comms were jammed and sensors revealed nothing, he would rely on raw instinct. He inhaled deeply, tasting the unfiltered air, as a Lyre-Cat might scent prey.

Cautiously, Laetris advanced deeper into the spire. His steps grew silent, predatory—as if he stalked through enemy territory, not his own domain. Every sense screamed danger—but what kind? No signs of battle, no bodies, nothing. Only silence, thick as a tomb’s. And the vox was still dead.

His hand flew to his weapon as movement flickered ahead—but it was only a handful of Kabalites, their Pierced Star sigils glinting, slinking like frightened shadows along the unnervingly empty corridor.

"You! Stop skulking. Report—now."

Relief tinged his snarl. At least someone would explain.

"Save your breath, Laetris."

A cold, mocking voice cut through the gloom. The Kabalites shrank against the walls as figures emerged from the spire’s depths—uninvited, armed. The clatter of blades, the heavy tread of boots, the whisper of silk and the click of armor plates. At their head strode a noble warrior, idly swinging his helm by its crest. A scar bisected his face—from temple to jaw, a precise, deliberate burn. Shaved temples gleamed; black eyes glinted above a serpent’s smile, needle-sharp teeth bared.

His armor bristled with hooked chains, each link etched with the sigil of the Kabal of the Black Heart.

"Archon Xadelyar," Artalion spat, lips twisting into a mockery of a greeting. "To what do I owe the honor? A high envoy of the Black Heart, slithering into my halls unannounced? And my own subjects couldn’t even greet me—how fascinating."

"Do not test me, Archon." Xadelyar snapped his fingers. His retinue began encircling Artalion, flanking him. "And do nothing you’ll regret. You’re no fool—you won’t refuse an invitation from our glorious overlord, Asdrubael Vect himself. Will you?"

"An invitation?" Artalion’s hand stayed on his blade’s hilt, but he did not draw.

"Oh yes. For a… discussion." Xadelyar’s grin widened. "For now, consider it merely a request. Though a firm one. Your subjects were slow to understand that refusing would be… impolite. I persuaded them otherwise." A tilt of his head. Black Heart warriors seized Artalion’s arms; the cold muzzle of a splinter rifle pressed into his spine. The click of metal against armor was answer enough: resistance meant death. Painful. Untidy.

Xadelyar had chosen his moment well. With the Kabal’s main strike force absent, it had been trivial to sever the spire’s vox, disarm its guardians, and stride unchallenged into its heart.

Do not be fooled into thinking the Black Heart’s envoys had an easy path—but the lack of coordination among the defenders sowed the necessary chaos. A few brief, if fierce, skirmishes were hardly worth Xadelyar’s notice. And once he recited Vect’s decree, resistance withered entirely. After all, he only needed four highborn Kabalites—and to wait for the Archon himself.

The sole exception was an Incubus, one of the personal guards of Xadelyar’s chosen hostages. "Utterly rabid," the younger Black Heart Archon later admitted, forced to acknowledge he had underestimated the fury of House Laetris’ chosen.

Kaed, however, came to hate himself in that moment—hated every second that had passed since the Black Heart’s raiders darkened the spires of the Pierced Star. Because before Xadelyar, before the betrayal, it was the Incubi who came for him first.

Two Hierarchs led them. They surrounded Kaed and ordered him to lower his blade, presenting a summons—signed by the very hand that had once accepted his oaths. Even then, Kaed hesitated unforgivably long. He knew he was guilty of no transgression, neither against the Temple’s code nor Commorragh’s laws. Which meant this order was against his lord.

Which oath held greater weight? Loyalty to his master, or obedience to the Temple’s Hierarchs?

A heartbeat. Two. That was all it took.

The moment Kaed made his choice—fingers tightening on his klaive, his free hand activating his helm’s vox—the intruders lost patience. A needle-thin dart hissed into the seam of his armor. A trifle, for a warrior like Kaed. It did not stop him. He still raised his blade. He still realized, too late, that the vox was dead.

Then the venom struck—a branching lightning of paralysis. The fight ended before it began.

They had granted him mercy. The mercy of not forcing him to betray anyone.

A mercy he had not asked for.

Kaed could not say how long he spent in the Temple. Hours, perhaps. Days. Later, pacing the obsidian marble halls, exchanging terse words with the bewildered remnants of the Pierced Star, he reconstructed the events in his mind.

He saw how Xadelyar had severed the spire’s communications. Who had fallen in the skirmishes. How Nylia, the Razor Claw, had fought to the last.

Yes. That was her name. Nylia Razor Claw. Personal guard to Lady Riallain—who, as any student of Kabal politics knew, ruled House Laetris’ affairs while the Archon led raids. Nylia had died well. It changed nothing.

The bodies—both loyal and enemy—had been spirited away. Kaed did not ask where. But the bloodstains on the polished stone were still fresh. Not enough time had passed for despair. Not yet too late for vengeance.

And because Kaed could reconstruct every moment, every step of that day, he had his purpose.

No one could breach the Pierced Star’s defenses without the right key. No one could bypass the security systems he himself had built—unless the invaders were let in from within.

So he took up the trail like a bloodhound. And if asked what betrayal smelled like, he would have answered without hesitation: seared flesh and the ozone crackle of a stun charge.

The certainty of treachery had crystallized in his mind during those long hours in the Temple, strung above Khaine’s altar, convulsing as agony branched through his nerves. Lightning-flashes of pain, blood sheeting down the chains—but none of it surpassed the trials of his training. His tormentors tried. They failed.

Which meant he had no reason to recant.

They asked him only one thing, over and over:

"Do you believe yourself pure before Arhra’s covenants? Will you continue to serve a traitor-lord who dared defy the Archtyrant’s laws—or return to the Temple’s embrace?"

Had it been his own Hierarchs asking, perhaps the answer would have been harder. But they took him to a foreign Temple, filled with faces and voices he did not know.

And so, each time they let him breathe—each time his lungs dragged in just enough air to speak—Kaed gave the same reply:

"I have broken no oaths. My lord did not release me—and I swore to serve until death claims me or he grants me freedom. I am pure before Father Arhra. Pure before my own conscience. And nothing will make me renounce these words."

They tested his resolve with meticulous cruelty, found it unshaken, and at last granted him a choice:

"You have proven yourself faithful to the Incubi’s covenants. If you remain here now, your honor will remain unstained. Your lord has tread the path of rebellion—he has defied the will of Commorragh’s Supreme Archon. You need not follow him."

"There was no direct accusation of rebellion," Kaed replied. For the first time in years, a spark of his old, calculating intellect flickered in his sunken golden eyes, cutting through the mindless fury that had carried him through the Temple’s trials. "I know nothing of it. And thus, I cannot forsake my oath."

And so he walked out—guided only by his vows and the iron laws of honor. Pain still crackled through his nerves like live wire, but he slung his klaive over his shoulder with deliberate theatrics, just as he had when he first left the Temple’s halls.

"In pain, truth is born." Those words had taken new meaning. The truth had been forged in hatred and the agonizer’s sparks before Khaine’s altar: House Laetris had a rotten link in its chain.

And Kaed would find it.

He had been tasked with guarding order in these halls. That was exactly what he would do.

The footsteps were unmistakable—heavy now, lacking their former grace, but still deliberate, still his. Kaed wasn’t the only one who recognized them. Shadows stirred as Kabalites and scions of House Laetris slithered from the corridors, drawn like carrion birds to the sound.

"Don’t tell me it’s been this dull the whole time," came the first words of Archon Artalion Laetris as he stepped beneath the vaulted arches of the grand hall. His voice was a blade dragged across bone.

"Not entirely, my Archon." Kaed rose slowly from the steps of the throne, where he had been seated with his klaive across his knees. "There were… moments of excitement. Brief ones. You were gone long, my lord."

"Delayed." The Archon’s teeth gleamed as he spoke. He looked wrong—cheeks hollowed to parchment, pupils dilating and contracting like a stalking beast’s. Blood crusted his armor in blackened streaks, matted the silver threads of his ancestral Laetris-white hair into gore-stiffened ropes. His cloak hung in tatters; his boots left glossy, wet prints on the marble. The naked blade in his hand was slick with something that wasn’t blood.

"What’s this?" Artalion jabbed his sword at the corpse sprawled at the throne’s base, its skull split like overripe fruit. "Couldn’t be bothered to clean up?"

"The one responsible for your delay," Kaed said. "I found the traitor, my Archon. He awaited your return. In the only form left to him." A pause. "Iralat Laetris. The one who opened the door for the Black Heart."

Artalion’s smile was a wound. "All of you—get out. Except the Incubus."

One of the gathered Kabalites dared to speak—a single syllable before the Archon moved. The blow wasn’t meant to kill; Kaed saw the shift in Artalion’s wrist, the redirect at the last instant. Still, the blade carved a grinning red mouth across the fool’s face.

The hall emptied faster than a gutted throat spilled blood.

Artalion kicked the corpse aside as he ascended the dais, collapsing onto the throne with a sound like breaking armor. His sword clattered to the steps.

"So. Our ‘guest’ was invited by this whelp Iralat—third-cousin-once-removed by Ranzar’s first wife." The Archon’s voice was a serrated whisper. "Tell me you at least interrogated him."

Kaed nodded. "I did not know when you would return. I took the liberty of executing him publicly. He confessed—before witnesses—to handing Xadelyar the access codes. I should have realized sooner. My failure."

"Meaningless." Artalion’s ghastly grin faded at last, exhaustion etching deeper into his face. "I indulged that brat too often myself."

Iralat had been among the Archon’s inner circle—if not its innermost ring. Artalion had valued his cunning, his skill in battle.

Too much, it seemed, to notice the rot beneath.

Kaed exhaled quietly, considered for a moment—then removed his helm.

"Are you hungry, my lord? Or wounded?"

"Yes... no. I don’t need anything." The Archon’s voice was a frayed wire.

Kaed shrugged, crossed the hall, and returned with a carafe of wine and a goblet. The Thirsting One’s hunger might have been sated in the lower city’s slaughterhouses, but mortal exhaustion was its own torment.

Artalion sneered but took the cup. He drank slowly. Silence stretched between them, thick as blood. Finally, he waved a hand, permitting Kaed to tend to his wounds—few in number, truth be told. But that didn’t mean Vect’s audience had been gentle. The Archon’s trials had likely been more… creative than Kaed’s own ordeal in the Temple.

When Artalion spoke at last, Kaed sank onto his customary step below the throne, listening with the focus of a blade poised to strike.

"Do you remember your childhood, Kaed?"

The question caught him off guard. Slowly, he shook his head.

"Fragments. Nothing before the Temple."

"Then there’s no point asking if you remember your parents," Artalion mused, rubbing the bridge of his nose with elegant, ink-stained fingers. The gesture was familiar—his lordship’s tell for deep, troubled thought.

"I’m not even sure I had any," Kaed ventured.

"What?" The Archon’s surprise seemed genuine. "They never told you? You’re no vat-born whelp. You had a mother, once. Though I suppose it’s no surprise—the Temple divides even grown initiates into ‘before’ and ‘after,’ doesn’t it?"

"It does. But I don’t understand your meaning, my lord."

"Our choices, our deeds—they shape what we know of ourselves. Sounds convoluted, doesn’t it?"

"Somewhat."

"You’ll grasp it. You’ve a sharp mind." Artalion’s voice was a rasp, like a blade dragged over stone. "I only meant to say… I arrived at this crossroads because I began understanding certain truths about myself and my family when I was still a boy."

Kaed said nothing. He disliked this voice—hollow, grim. He’d have preferred rage. Snarling curses. Even the idiot Kabalite’s death would have been better. Few ends in the Dark City were truly final, after all. A trip to the Haemonculi, and the fool could’ve been back to pester his lord within the year…

"I remember my parents." Artalion’s fingers traced the lineage tattoos snaking up his throat. "Strange, to recall it now. My father was like a god to me then. Wrathful, terrible, swift to punish and sparing with mercy—but radiant. A star given Eldar flesh. My mother was no less. Until the day they quarreled, and she vanished into some distant sub-realm with a handful of ships. Not long after, even whispers of her ceased. Then my father fell from the Tyrant’s favor. Why? Who knows? Perhaps he bowed too low. Or not low enough. Or perhaps the Puppetmaster merely grew bored." A pause. "That was when I learned—nothing shields you but the blade in your own hand. I swore then, vicious little fool that I was, that I’d never let myself be so broken. Because a fallen god can be survived. But forgiven? Never."

The wine was gone. Artalion hurled the goblet aside.

"Our house was renowned for its wit. Its cunning. Its caution. And look where it got us. Knives in the dark don’t care for cleverness. Neither do execution orders." He straightened, and his next words were a razor’s edge:

"There is no shield. Save one—ensuring no one remains to give such orders. The knives will still come, yes. But who said this game can’t be played from both sides?"

Artalion Laetris laughed then—a sound like a tomb sealing shut.

Kaed shook his head slowly. He’d long known his Archon nurtured some dark design. He’d deliberately avoided prying—but a right hand cannot be utterly blind. He knew of the hidden passages beneath Commorragh’s oldest spires. The intelligence bought, stolen, and carved from rival Kabals. The decades-long game that had begun with a single, stolen secret.

To overthrow a monster, one must become a greater monster still. And Artalion had every chance of succeeding.

"The game is over, though." The Archon’s voice cracked. "Vect left me no way out. None. Do you hear?"

He’d begun quietly. By the end, he was nearly shouting. Then his hands covered his face—a shuddering breath—and when they fell, Kaed saw something terrible in his lord’s expression.

Grief.

Why Artalion recounted the audience then, Kaed could only guess. But as the tale unfolded in terse, bone-dry phrases, the Incubus reconstructed every moment with perfect, horrifying clarity:

The Tyrant’s voice—soft, insinuating. The exaggerated courtesy, the porcelain smile. "Oh, you heeded my invitation, Laetris! Let’s talk, shall we?"

The Tyrant’s gaze was a blade of black obsidian, merciless as it pinned the battered Laetris in place. Artalion had no intention of giving Xadelyar the satisfaction of forcing him to kneel—he dropped to one knee unprompted, the ceremonial gesture performed with icy precision. But he lifted his head a heartbeat too soon. A fractional defiance.

Vect’s eyes narrowed—just slightly, just enough. A habit so distinct, even his clone-doubles mimicked it (though always too overtly, too theatrically). This time, Artalion faced the real Tyrant. And the Tyrant had prepared a game.

The conversation was a dance of barbs and half-truths—one Artalion knew well. But soon, the veneer of civility cracked.

"You know, Archon," Vect murmured, voice like oiled silk, "there’s something I’d like to show you."

The hall they entered was one reserved for interrogations. Not the kind that killed—not immediately. Artalion had prepared for torture. What he hadn’t prepared for was whose screams would greet him.

"The hostages Xadelyar took before delivering his ‘invitation.’" Artalion’s voice was hollow as he stared at the vaulted ceiling. " Riallain. Amdir. Evelight. Lysander. Each one swore the plot was theirs alone. Each one begged to spare the others. And when it was my turn—I denied everything. Called them liars. The Tyrant just laughed. Said he believed none of us… but found the farce delightful. Then he let me go."

The Archon surged to his feet, pacing like a caged beast. He stopped abruptly, staring at the corpse at the throne’s base. A shuddering exhale.

"If I could resurrect that wretch just to flay him alive a dozen times—" A snarl. "Xadelyar even told me his name at the end. As if the worm’s betrayal was a gift. But revenge isn’t an option now. Kaed. We have no time."

"Why?"

"Because Vect gave me a choice." Artalion’s smile was a rictus. "Deliver the ‘remaining conspirators’ from my own house to him—and accept whatever public punishment he devises. Or watch the Kabal of the Pierced Star be erased. Everything. The spires. The docks. The gardens. Every soul. Every memory of our house. I have until the Gorath Illmae’s next cycle to decide." A pause. "A third of that time is already gone. The Puppetmaster calls this his ‘magnanimity.’"

"And the hostages?"

Artalion’s laughter was a thing of razors.

"Do you think he’d ever release a leash he can yank at will? I must break or die. Or both."

Kaed’s tongue flicked over his lips, tasting blood. House Laetris had been gutted. Lady Riallain alone was worth a sub-realm’s ransom—and the Archon loved her, as much as a Commorrite noble could love anything. The others were no less vital: Amdir and Evelight, the martial geniuses who commanded the Pierced Star’s fleets; Lysander, the spymaster who’d backed Artalion’s rise decades ago. Their loss was a decapitation.

Then came the question Kaed had dreaded:

"Where were you?"

The weight of Artalion’s gaze was a physical thing. Kaed didn’t flinch, but his shoulders tightened.

"The Temple." A beat. "I was removed before the Black Heart’s envoys arrived."

"And what," the Archon whispered, "did the Temple want with you?"

Kaed’s head snapped up—was he under suspicion now? His inner voice hissed: You would suspect your own shadow in his place.

"To test my loyalty."

"To whom?"

"To you." Kaed’s jaw clenched. "And the Temple. But first—to you, my Archon."

He wouldn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Artalion’s eyes—burning with dawning fury—flicked to the barely visible twitch in Kaed’s hollow cheek. To the way his pupils dilated erratically. To the teeth gritted against remembered pain.

The Archon saw.

Artalion let out a quiet scoff.

"You shouldn’t have come back. Put your helm on, Kaed."

"Why?" The Incubus obeyed, but his tone was blunt. "What’s the point?"

"Were you listening? I just said—we have no way out. A few hours. That’s all House Laetris has left."

"What do you intend to do, my Archon?"

"Me? It doesn’t matter. Though…" A bitter smile. "I’ve already said too much, and you’ll soon see why. So why not this? I’ve made my choice. I won’t let the Tyrant take a single one of the lives he dangles over me like carrion for a bloodfly. If they’re already lost… then I’ll kill them myself. If I must, I’ll slither through the hidden paths to Vect’s lair and rip his poisoned leash from his teeth. There’s no other way. I’ve thought it through. Wandering the city, butchering gutter-scum in the lower spires—I had time. You see, Kaed, I’m already dead. And corpses don’t need oaths. So I’ll say it again—you shouldn’t have returned." His voice, sharp with fury moments ago, frayed into exhaustion. "You don’t have to die with us."

"I couldn’t do otherwise. I swore to you." Kaed’s reply was hollow.

"I’ve thought it through." The words echoed. Kaed understood now—those long hours Artalion had spent carving his way back to the Pierced Star’s palace hadn’t just been about sating the Thirst or dulling the pain. They’d been about this. The coldest calculation of his life. A decision already made. And these final moments in his halls? Merely the quiet before the storm.

"Then I release you from your vows." Artalion snatched up the fallen blade and strode past him. Kaed moved to follow—until the Archon wheeled around and drove the sword’s pommel into his chestplate. "Go. The contract is void. Leave, Kaed—while you still can. Let someone remember House Laetris before it’s erased."

"I won’t retreat. You’ll need help for what you’re planning." Kaed matched his stride as Artalion turned toward the exit.

"You choose death?" The Archon’s grin was a wound.

Kaed removed his helm once more. Kneeling, he bowed his head, then swayed forward, lowering himself further still. His hair—short, barely reaching mid-neck (for an Incubi such as he needed no longer)—tumbled past his face, baring his neck. His heightened senses caught the brush of a cool draft against his skin, while his ears caught the hiss of breath forced through clenched teeth. His imagination, ever vivid, conjured the whisper of steel slicing the void before biting into willingly offered flesh.

Three heartbeats passed. Nothing came.

"I’ll swear a new oath," Kaed murmured. "And follow you anywhere."

"Why?"

"Because honor tempered in Khaine’s fury doesn’t step aside when pushed." The Incubus didn’t lift his head. "And because you’ll struggle alone. Even if Vect never learned of your trump card—those ancient keys to the passages beneath his spires."

Silence. No denial about the keys. No dismissal of the offer. Just the faint shick of a blade sliding home into its sheath.

Kaed looked up—just as Artalion froze mid-step. The Archon bent, plucked something from the floor, and held it to the light: a thin, shimmering plaque.

"By Khaine’s blood—I could swear it was not here a moment ago," the Archon muttered, turning the newfound trinket between his fingers.

The Harlequin’s calling card. On it, two holographic masks cycled—one laughing, one weeping.

"Show yourself," Artalion rasped.

The shadows behind the pillars moved. From them stepped a towering figure in motley—crimson and gold, azure diamonds, a gilded grinning mask.

"I am Kirvah. Alone for now." The Harlequin’s voice was a melody edged with knives. "The Dark City stirs. Blood floods the stage, and every step could be your last. So tell me… might a humble player’s aid be of use?"

***

How strange, thought the Hierarch, that a single word could tear open a portal to the past.

Harlequins.

Just the mention was enough to send the Black Glimmer tumbling into memory’s abyss—as easily as if it had all happened yesterday. The fall of House Laetris. The betrayal. The Temple’s interrogations. The looming specter of annihilation... and that shimmering hololith trembling in the Archon’s fingers. Then—the bloody dance at the Laughing God’s whim.

Centuries had passed since that night when he—then still a mere Incubus—first witnessed the Harlequins’ true nature beyond their fool’s pantomimes. Yet shaking off the past’s grip proved harder than he’d imagined.

"Are you listening, honored Hierarch?"

The voice was melodic, accustomed to command, yet softened now—only the faintest thread of impatience woven through it. Kelimris was no fool. Never had been. After a beat, she tried again:

"Kaed?"

"No one has called me by that name in a long time, child." The Hierarch’s response was gravel wrapped in silk. "Yet I’m glad to hear it. I understand your request… but find it strange."

Kelimris exhaled almost imperceptibly, shaking her head. The years had transformed the stubborn girl he remembered into a woman—radiant, self-assured, every inch the Archon of a rising Kabal. Her riotous crimson-and-ebony mane was piled high in an elaborate braid; her armor, studded with gems, gleamed even beneath the plain cloak she’d worn for this discreet visit to the Temple.

And she was nervous. She didn’t bother hiding it from him.

"You seem troubled, Archon Kelimris." Kaed tilted his head. "Why does the fate of that arena wych, Sinistoria, concern you so?"

"We have… shared interests. If her troubles couldn’t become mine, I wouldn’t be here." Her fingers tightened. "But I’ve no one else to ask. Learn anything—and the debt will be paid in full."

Kaed muttered something under his breath, but Kelimris only smiled—hopeful. He hadn’t refused outright. That meant persuasion was possible.

"The Wych Cult and the Arena of Deadly Thirst." He spoke slowly, as if still weighing his answer. "I thought you more discerning in your allies. But politics walks crooked paths, I suppose."

Brave, this one. To come to the Temple herself, to dismiss the lesser Incubi sent to greet her, to wait for him… She’d been a stubborn child, too. One who’d loved wild stories.

"Perhaps I’ll help. Since you trust no one else."

"It’s not about trust," she admitted. "But explaining my unease would invite ridicule. And more importantly—no one else could do this. No torturer, no Incubus, none of my spies can unravel Harlequin business."

"Then tell me—what unsettles you? These aren’t the first performers in the Dark City."

"No. But paired with whispers of the Coming Sundering, slave revolts—how could even that upstart Kheradruakh’s cult miss such rot in their midst?—and worst of all…" She leaned in. "Too many have seen this Harlequin. One Harlequin. Always alone. And you know as well as I—a solo dancer of Cegorach is never a good omen."

Kaed didn’t laugh. "Some old tales are lethally accurate."

He weighed the horned helm in his hands, as if seeking counsel in its amber lenses, then met her gaze.

"You want this kept quiet?"

A nod. Then, unexpectedly, she bowed—and pressed her lips to his scarred knuckles.

Kaed agreed. Perhaps because the puzzle intrigued him. Or perhaps because of the stubborn affection he still harbored—the way he’d once seen in little Kelimris a reflection of the future he might have had, had things been different.

So when she left, he shed his ceremonial armor for something quieter. A cloak woven with cameleoline threads. A hunter’s guise.

Through rumors and bloodstains, from the lowest gutters to the Arena of Deadly Thirst, he followed the trail. Until he saw it—a flicker at the edge of vision. A holofield activating.

A Harlequin.

And not just any.

Arebennian.

Kelimris’ fears were justified. If Sinistoria had drawn the attention of this one—the most unpredictable of Cegorach’s servants—things were worse than she knew.

Kaed had lived too long to delude himself. Harlequins were no fools in motley. No relics of a dead age. They were weapons. Unpredictable, terrifying, wielded by a mad god. And Arebennian? A soloist. The worst kind.

He first spotted the Harlequin in the arena’s upper galleries. A figure in violet-and-gold domino, black silk like liquid night, a silver mask with eyes that burned with witchfire. A shadow slipping through the crowd, unnoticed by all—too enthralled by the bloodshed below to sense the wrongness in their midst.

Kaed’s cameleoline cloak was no match for a Harlequin’s holofields, but he had no intention of being seen. To stalk the stalker, to hunt the hunter—this was a challenge worthy of his skills.

And as he moved, the old words pounded in his skull like a funeral drum:

Blood floods the stage. Commorragh does not sleep soundly.

How horribly right they’d been. And how perfectly they fit now.

And yes, there was blood—an astonishing amount of it, considering Arebennian had chosen the unlikeliest of instruments for his design: a ragtag band of escaped prisoners, mostly mon-keigh, who had slipped the Arena's deadly grasp. They fought with a ferocity that made no distinction between vagrants and Kabalites, wyches and mutated freaks, dancing with death and spitting in the face of danger as if they had breathed Commorragh's air since birth—not bewildered captives from the human world beyond the Aeldari Webway.

Yet Kaed quickly realized—no amount of desperate bravery could save these fugitives, who had thrown half the wych cults and a few sluggish Kabals into chaos as they carved their way upward toward the docking spires. They were being led, step by step, like pieces on a board. Guided by unseen hands clad in black gloves tipped with golden claws. The deft fingers of a conductor—the Harlequin himself.

Why?

Kaed knew he would never learn the answer. Even if he were mad enough to ask directly.

"It is fate's will. We merely adjust its threads—so they do not sag like old harp strings, allowing the melody Cegorach desires to play." That was all he would hear, no different from what he had been told once before.

But he had learned what he needed: Sinistoria had drunk the bitter cup reserved for those who crossed the Webway's motley players, and she—like her allies—no longer interested the Harlequin. Which meant Kelimris was safe.

It was time, in the Harlequins' own parlance, to exit stage left—before he, too, became an unwitting actor in this bloody farce. Kaed had no illusions—if discovered, his fate would be... unpleasant. This particular Harlequin had already proven his fondness for cruel, ambiguous jests. It would not go well if he believed Kaed meant to interfere.

Or so the Incubus thought, standing in the shadows of a docking spire's gantry—closer to his quarry than caution dictated, but not yet close enough to be seen.

Then, against his better judgment, he indulged a moment of almost youthful curiosity.

A warrior could not help but admire the Harlequin's skill. The fluid mastery of the blade, the lethal precision of hidden weapons—it was a craftsman's fascination, pure and simple. And so, for a heartbeat, Kaed forgot his usual precautions.

He lingered.

Watched as Arebennian stared pensively at his own distorted reflection in the gantry's polished metal—blue-tinged steel gleaming under the uneven glow of the Gorath Illmae's crimson dawn.

The shadow of a passing raider swept over him, and Kaed tensed to slip away—

—only to freeze at the sound of a voice, whisper-soft and far too close:

"Come forth from shadows, hidden spy -
Too long I've tracked thy stealthy tread.
By whose hand wert thou sent? Reply,
Or flee before thy blood be shed."

"Would you imply the jest has reached its end?" Kaed responded, realizing his cover was blown. He turned—and found himself face-to-face with the Harlequin's silver mask, its witchfire visage mocking the Thirsting One's hunger. The Harlequin stood tall—taller still with the gilded horns crowning his mask. Kaed noted how rarely he encountered Aeldari who matched his own height. "Perhaps. Though spy I am not."

"Oh, but you are!" The Harlequin's laugh was like shattering crystal. His voice, though melodious, fractured into dissonance—as if filtered through layers of sonic distortion. "Was it not the Puppetmaster's hand that bid you come?"

"Most certainly not," Kaed replied with measured calm, shrugging. "I serve no Kabal, least of all the Black Heart. Whether that's fortunate or not, I couldn't say. But it is so."

The Harlequin hummed but offered no retort. Instead, he tilted his head, resting slender fingers against the silver curve of his masked chin. The face it depicted was one of glacial, aristocratic beauty—marred only by a sorrowful twist to its lips. Its eye sockets swam with abyssal darkness, yet Kaed sensed the weight of scrutiny behind them. The same appraising gaze he had so often cast upon Temple novitiates, weighing which souls might be forged into blades—and which were but wasted steel.

"Then show thy visage, venturesome and vain,
Who seek’st the final act of this dark tale?
Beware—the overwise but court the bane
That lifts to crowns or locks in iron jail."

"I know. Though I fail to see how I've earned such elaborate threats," Kaed responded, making no move to resist. Arguing with Harlequins was near impossible, and attacking to force this one's hand would be pointless - the Hierarch had observed this jester's movements enough to know his own chances were slim at best. The only option was to try parting peacefully - if luck permitted.

"Perhaps you haven't..." The brief reply carried a sing-song lilt that hinted at more poetic verses to come, but Kaed didn't wait for Arebennian to continue. He raised his hands and pushed back his hood, briefly regretting his earlier decision to secure his helmet to his belt rather than wear it. Facing another's unseen gaze without the amber lenses of his helm left him exposed. But it was too late for regrets now.

"See time's strange loop - a serpent's sly embrace,
Breaking rash necks... But you I recognize.
Who else could walk unseen through shadowed space,
Fooling all eyes,
And scattering props with practiced grace?"

The Harlequin's voice first held genuine astonishment, then a light chuckle. Finally, he burst into full laughter.

The old Incubus felt himself made a fool—a strange, almost forgotten sense of bewilderment washing over him in an instant.

When his laughter subsided, Arebennian brought his fingers to the bridge of his mask in the gesture of one weary from deep thought. He rubbed the silver surface, letting his gilded claws whisper upward, tracing the forehead and brow.

"Kaed." The Harlequin spoke softly now. "I am glad to see you alive."

The Incubus stiffened. The reverberating, fractured echo of the voice was gone—and Kaed could have sworn... sworn he had heard that voice before. Truly heard it.

Arebennian did not let him dwell on the mad thought. When he spoke again, the eerie, sorcerous cadence slithered back into his words. The dancer finished his line in the same poetic meter as before:

"Thy fate still weaves its thread, not yet undone.
This twist I'll mark. Now go—dark-nurtured one,

Thou stand'st unmatched in fortitude refined.
Depart, but bear thy memories enshrined,
As once thou didst—unchanged, though years unwind.

And in the mask's hollows blazed a fierce, merry fire—no illusion of the Harlequin's boundless power, but a true gaze. A vivid green gaze that could only belong to a mighty, battle-hardened warrior, even now concealed behind a jester's guise.

No plea was needed to spur the Incubus into motion. Swallowing the torrent of questions that threatened to spill forth, he hastily drew up his hood and retreated—even if it hadn't been real, even if that flicker in the mask's dark slit—so like a wink—had been but a trick of the light. Such things were better left unexamined.

"I am glad you live," the Incubus echoed silently. And added: Blood floods the stage. Commorragh does not sleep soundly—this time beneath the specter of the Sundering. If he'd read the enigmatic messenger of Cegorach aright, this Sundering might yet be averted. If so, may his mad god show him mercy.

But the Black Glimmer had debts of his own to settle. A Hierarch would do well to forget this encounter for peace of mind—yet Kaed, the same Kaed who never regretted his choices, thought: Memory is a jewel, after all. And he would remember—every moment, from first to last. Let it be his secret alone that one oath yet bound him: sworn long ago, not to gods, nor Temple, nor Arhra's spirit, but to a living soul. An oath to remember. The old Hierarch had no intention of breaking it.

Least of all now—after what he'd seen.

20.02.2025 ©Eirik Godvirdson