Council of Fractured Fates

In the shadowed halls of Nimariphar, the remnants of a fractured council gather, their voices a cacophony of desperation and defiance. The galaxy's hunger looms ever closer, and with it, the weight of a choice that could bind them to strangers from beyond the stars—or cast them into oblivion.

Kalmael. Council assembly, two days hence.

The assembly had dragged on for hours, a relentless grind of words and wills. Around the circular table stood the leaders of each faction, flanked by their closest aides, their garb a ritual kaleidoscope of power and tradition. Priests of the world-spirit, draped in white mantles with stoles embroidered in violet runes, stood solemn and unyielding. Seers and worldsingers, clad in green tunics, whispered among themselves, their eyes darting with unspoken prophecy. Shepherds and hunters, in brown doublets scarcely different from their daily wear, shifted restlessly, while chroniclers in pale beige suits scribbled notes with feigned detachment. Gardeners, builders, and technicians, robed in yellow, purple, and blue, murmured in low tones, their hands clasped in uncertainty. And finally, the warriors—cloaked in red with green patterns, their leader resplendent in crimson-and-gold armor, his helm and burgundy gloves a deliberate echo of Khaine's avatar, the Bloody-Handed God.

— This is an affront! — Riforion's voice thundered, his fury barely contained. — I cannot believe we entertain this madness! Unknown strangers, from unknown voids, dangle a trinket—and we grovel like curs? Awaken!

— What troubles you? The price is fair, payment only upon delivery, — Ethanark, the hunter chief, countered, his support for the pact fervent, at least in word.

— Ah, the contract. Such a soothing word. A splendid document, all so neat, so precise, — Riforion slammed his fist upon the table. — You're blinded by it! Traps lie plain before you! Clause 12-b: "Should the Client fail to supply refined metals, they may grant the Executor mining concessions. The metal's price shall then decrease by 60%." — His voice dripped with mockery. — The mon'keigh know full well we lack reserves or means. Have you forgotten? — His tone sharpened to a razor's edge. — They've spied on us for over two months, sniffed out every secret, every soul! They even foresaw whom we'd send to parley! We are not our craftworld kin, steeped in millennia of intrigue. This "deal" is a snare!

— And your alternative, Riforion? Has the war faction conjured some miracle to save us? — The chroniclers, wary of allying with mon'keigh, yet held their stance neutral. The warriors, for all their might, were council pariahs; alliance with them was a poisoned chalice.

— No "miracles." Merely sense, — Riforion snapped. — We squabble over purchases when we should seize. Take their leaders, their ship. Force their labor. Show the mon'keigh their place!

Riforion is no brute fool, I thought, watching him closely. His belligerence was a shield, the only means to cling to his seat on the council. Last of the old guard, he had become the rallying point for the hawks. A single show of weakness, a hair's breadth deviation from war's path, and his own would tear him asunder. Besides, Riforion was the sort to rule over ashes rather than dwell in paradise. So be it. I'll cast my stone upon the scales.

— Allow me to show you something, councilor.

I fumbled with the tablet, searching for footage of the infested worlds. The hawks began to snicker. Then, a press of a key—and the screen flared with images of tyranids smeared across a planet's surface. I slid the tablet toward Riforion.

— You wish this upon us? Tyranids, orks, dark kin—have they not bled us enough? Must we invite another foe?

He stared, mute, as the others crowded around. The tablet passed from hand to hand.

— All the more reason to fear them! Or do you crave their chains?

His arguments waned. Time for another move. I exchanged a glance with my chief, nodding faintly. Dintauil raised his staff, commanding silence.

— Let an old man sprinkle wisdom upon your fervor, — Dintauil's voice was laced with sarcasm. — Our musings are futile. Fact: their offer is salvation. Fact: their motives may damn us. We are blind—seers err so oft, — a barb aimed at the ignored ork prophecy. — Fact: war now is folly. We know too little of these mon'keigh.

— Thus, we take the pact. Watch closely. Call observers from Lirbelach for surety.

He cleared his throat, cracked his neck, and raised his voice.

— As for slavery, where do you see it, Riforion? No matter—if it were so, think you volunteers would be scarce? Step outside, cry "Who would trade freedom for our world's life?" How many eldar would stand before me? I'd go myself if need be! — His tone softened. — More objections?

— Yes, — the priests broke their silence. I'd primed them before the council; now they'd drive the final nail into Riforion's coffin. — Nimariphar's spirit favors the strangers' pact.

Better than I'd dared hope. They spoke not as a faction but as the world-soul's voice—even the prince would not defy it. The war leader's fists clenched and unclenched, fury boiling within. The discourse shifted to prices, terms, timelines. As it neared its end, the chroniclers raised a hand.

— Councilors, we overlook a detail. We send dozens of our young on a perilous trek. Without spiritual wards or wise counsel, the stars will crush them.

— A future-knower would suit. Dintauil, you yearned to go, but age and duty bind you.

— No-no-no, Alean's dung, — not this — we propose Kalmael. It saves costs too. Only that mad huntress—Briesann—fetched a higher price. You agree, Dintauil?

With my chief, I scanned the faces of the council. Our faction's sway had grown too great, and it chafed them. Today's display had bared our strength too boldly—we'd outwitted ourselves. Allies and foes alike eyed us through crosshairs. And now I am the bone tossed to war's hounds.

Isha, I understand. No choice.

But it doesn't mean I relish it.

After the council, Dintauil approached, resting a hand upon my shoulder, his voice steady.

— I know your heart, pupil. See this not as sacrifice or exile, but as chance. My gift blinds to these strangers, yet I foresee much bound to them.

— You'll shape more from their ship than this hall.

In twilight, upon my balcony, I sought to pierce time's veil. My fate's threads elude me, but the runes spoke plain: a long road, foes, betrayals, battles. Time to prepare. They await.

The pact is sealed. Yet the galaxy's maw yawns wider, its hunger unslaked.