Movements and Reactions

The report from Drakon Naezir arrived with a flourish, the cold light of Commorragh's perpetual twilight glinting off his polished armor. He knelt before Lady Malys, his movements sharp and precise, reflecting the ruthless efficiency that had earned him her favor. His words spilled forth in clipped, measured tones, detailing the clandestine dealings of the Navigator Houses and their perilous schemes against Franklin Valorian.

When he finished, the oppressive silence of the throne room was broken by Malys's laughter—a sound as sharp and dangerous as the edge of a klaive. It rang out like the chime of breaking glass, cutting through the stillness with a blend of amusement and disdain.

"Scheming little rats," she murmured, her lips curving into a sly smirk. "The Imperium's vaunted Navigator Houses are no better than the Archons of Commorragh—writhing in shadows, slipping knives between ribs. How quaint that they aim for Franklin Valorian's head. They will shatter their blades on his smirk alone."

Her words hung in the air like venom as she rose from her throne. The silken folds of her robes, dyed in hues of iridescent blue and green, swirled around her in a display of predatory grace. She descended the dais, each step deliberate, her presence commanding and lethal.

"And what of our arrangements with the so-called Lord of Commorragh?" she asked, her voice light, yet laced with malice. "What of Vect?"

Naezir's tone remained measured, his posture unyielding. "Everything is prepared, my Lady. All that remains is to release the truth of Asdrubael Vect's hand in the burning of Old Commorragh. The fury of every denizen, every Homunculus, will ignite like dry tinder. They will tear him apart as Khymerae do a wounded beast. The Archon of the Black Heart will find no sanctuary—not even in his own shadow."

Malys's chuckle was low and rich, resonating with amusement at the image Naezir painted. She reached up, brushing gloved fingers against the delicate circlet resting on her brow, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.

"An upheaval, indeed," she mused, her voice soft as silk. "Vect's death will send ripples through the Webway. The Kabal of the Black Heart will collapse like a crumbling spire, its pieces claimed by the vultures of Commorragh." She paused, her smirk fading into a contemplative expression. "But Commorragh is ever a place of hunger, of endless ambition. For every Archon we remove, ten more will rise, each more ravenous than the last."

Naezir remained silent, a shadow in her presence, awaiting her next command. Malys began to pace, her sharp heels clicking against the obsidian floor like the ticking of a death clock.

"If the Kabal of the Poisoned Tongue is to rise to dominance amidst this upheaval, our position must be unassailable. Numbers, equipment, and alliances…" Her voice turned colder. "The Black Heart's strength must become ours. Yet, obstacles remain."

Her gaze grew sharper, more calculating. "Vat-grown warriors will suffice to swell our ranks. But equipment… ah, there lies the thorn. Aestra Khromys. That spiteful creature would rather see Commorragh ablaze than cede control of the arms trade. And to outmaneuver her…"

Her steps slowed, her pace stilled. A flicker of inspiration crossed her face, her lips parting ever so slightly. She tilted her head, her fingers brushing against her lips in a rare moment of contemplation.

"An answer," she whispered, the words almost lost in the stillness of the chamber. "How ironic that the solution to our internal squabbles lies outside the labyrinth of the Webway. A certain… someone. An old friend."

Naezir's gaze flickered with curiosity, though he dared not interrupt her thoughts. Malys turned to face him fully, the gleam of cunning in her eyes matched by the wicked curve of her smile.

"Arrange a meeting with Franklin Valorian," she commanded, her voice as sharp and certain as the bite of a blade. "The Lord of Liberty, master of a Military-Industrial Complex that could arm the Segmentum Obscurus twice over and still have surplus to spare. Who better to solve our little predicament?"

Naezir's bow was deep and fluid. "As you wish, my Lady. It shall be done." He rose swiftly and retreated, leaving Malys alone with her thoughts.

Her smirk lingered as she leaned against the edge of her throne, one hand resting lightly on its intricately carved armrest. Franklin Valorian. A name that resonated even in the darkest recesses of the Webway. The Primarch who had razed Old Commorragh to the ground.

Malys's gaze turned inward as she considered the implications of reaching out to him now. Valorian was no stranger to Commorragh's treacherous labyrinth, nor to her own brand of cunning. Their paths had crossed before, a careful balancing act of intrigue, power, and thinly veiled amusement.

She chuckled softly, the sound low and resonant. Her fingers traced the curve of her lips, recalling their past exchanges. There had always been something deliciously infuriating about Franklin Valorian—his unshakable confidence, his refusal to be baited by her games. A frustrating equal, yet undeniably useful.

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The dry winds of the newly conquered frontier world swept across the barren plains as Franklin Valorian holstered The Last Word, the smoking barrel still warm from dispatching the last Drukhari raider. Around him, the Liberty Eagles secured the Webway portal that had served as the enemy's entry point, marking it for future fortification. This once-forgotten solar system was now designated as a fortress system—a critical bulwark against future incursions. In the distance, the remnants of a Drukhari vessel exploded in the upper atmosphere, its fiery demise reflected in Franklin's unwavering brown eyes.

The sound of slow, deliberate clapping broke through the air, incongruous amidst the dying embers of battle. Franklin's smirk vanished as he turned, The Last Word drawn once more, its aim unerringly fixed on the forehead of the intruder.

Standing before him was Lady Malys, her elegant figure draped in the intricate silks of her station, adorned with jewels that shimmered like starlight. Despite the weapon aimed at her, her expression was one of amusement.

"You wouldn't kill your business partner, would you now, Franklin?" she asked, her tone light and mocking, yet carrying an undercurrent of tension.

Franklin's voice was calm but laced with steel. "That depends. Said business partner has a reputation for having me clean up her rivals by conveniently providing their locations and raiding patterns."

Lady Malys stepped forward, unfazed by the deadly weapon mere inches from her forehead. Her gaze met his, unflinching. "Shoot, why don't you?" she taunted, placing herself directly in the line of fire.

For a brief moment, her confidence wavered as her keen senses detected something far more profound in Franklin's eyes. The searing presence of a god's gaze bore down upon her soul. It was not the cold, consuming hunger of Slaanesh, which she had felt countless times before, but the fiery and unrelenting wrath of Khaine. It felt as if her very essence stood on the edge of a blade, a single misstep away from immolation.

Franklin's voice, sharp and commanding, snapped her from her reverie. "What is it that you want, Aurelia? Surely goading me into shooting a business partner isn't part of why you're here. Or have you suddenly decided to join Khaine's eternal host?"

Lady Malys's lips curled into a sly smile. "Nothing so theological, Franklin. I have a business proposition—something that would benefit us both. But I need your support."

Franklin lowered the weapon slightly but did not holster it, his posture exuding both authority and caution. "Business? I thought we already had an understanding, Aurelia. The criminals of the Imperium are sent to you and your Kabal, and in exchange, you fuck off and reveal future raids of the Drukhari."

Malys chuckled, her laughter as smooth as silk. "Yes, that was our agreement. But I wish to take it further. Let's say I plan to target Vect and take his place and ascend to power. Aurelia Malys, Supreme Overlord of Commorragh. Sounds good, doesn't it?"

Franklin shook his head, a grimace of disapproval crossing his features. "To my ears, it sounds like a disaster. I'm perfectly fine with the current state of Commorragh—a fractured, self-devouring cesspool where the rabble is easier to deal with. Even a figurehead like you at the top would complicate things."

Malys's smile remained, though her eyes hardened. "You misunderstand, Franklin. I don't seek to unite Commorragh—that would be both impossible and undesirable. I aim to replace Vect, to control the Black Heart, and to bring a measure of predictability to its chaos. Under my rule, the infighting would remain, but it would be chaos that I control."

Franklin's brow furrowed, his arms crossing over his chest as he considered her words. "And what exactly do I gain from this little power play of yours? I don't make investments without a guaranteed return."

Malys's tone turned sharp, her voice dropping to a lower, more serious register. "Stability. Under Vect, the Black Heart remains a constant threat to your Independence Sector. His spies infiltrate your worlds even now. By supporting me, you gain a ruler who values our partnership. I'd ensure Commorragh remains fractured, its rival Kabals too busy fighting amongst themselves to pose a real threat to your borders."

Franklin's eyes narrowed. "And what stops you from turning on me once you've solidified your power?"

Malys stepped closer, her voice soft but dripping with irony. "Trust, Franklin. Not trust born of friendship or loyalty, but trust in my pragmatism. I'm not Vect. I don't seek to dominate the galaxy or challenge you. I've seen what you're capable of, and I have no desire to end up like those raiders you just obliterated. Our interests align. Surely you can see that."

Franklin's smirk returned, though it lacked warmth. "Nice try, Aurelia. But I find it highly undesirable for the Drukhari to be united, even under a figurehead. Resources are not an issue for me—I have the entire galaxy as my treasure trove. What's a little city in the Webway compared to that? Think again."

Malys's smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. "Perhaps I can sweeten the deal. The Novis Nobilite, the great Navigator houses, plan to assassinate you. They've finally been pushed to the brink."

Franklin chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "I already know. In fact, I'm surprised they haven't moved sooner. If this is the only card you have to play, Aurelia, then let's end this meeting. I have more important matters to attend to than aiding your little power grab."

But Malys wasn't done. Her next words stopped Franklin in his tracks. "The Webway gates. The Webway itself, Franklin. There's been an awful lot of movement from Imperial forces within it, toward an abandoned Webway city—Calastar."

Franklin's gaze sharpened, his attention fully on her now. "Calastar?"

Lady Malys nodded, sensing the shift in his demeanor. "Yes. The way to Calastar is heavily fortified and to think the Emperor could hide it through the many folds of the Webway. The amount of your Men of Iron sentinels guarding it is astounding. It's an impenetrable fortress to most—Necron, Chaos, or any other xenos species. All but Drukhari"

The ground beneath her feet trembled as spectral hands rose from the earth, grasping at her ankles. Blades of flame appeared in a circle around her, their heat palpable. Malys's sharp mind recognized them for what they were: the souls of dead Eldar, now bound to Khaine.

Franklin knelt, his smirk gone, his expression deadly serious. "This knowledge makes you too dangerous to live, Aurelia," he said, his voice low and cold.

Malys's heart raced, though her exterior remained composed. "If you kill me," she said, her voice trembling slightly but still defiant, "my informants will ensure this knowledge reaches the Ruinous Powers. I know your little skirmishes with them, Franklin."

Franklin studied her for a moment, his thoughts racing. Finally, he sighed and drew Anaris. The blade's edge gleamed with a deadly light as he stabbed her through the abdomen. She gasped, expecting death, but instead felt... something else.

"What did you do?" she demanded, her voice sharp with confusion.

Franklin's smirk returned, this time full of grim amusement. "I had Khaine mark you," he said simply. "Think of it as a failsafe. You're free to live, Aurelia, but if you betray me or spread word of Calastar, the consequences will be... unpleasant."

Malys's eyes widened as she realized the truth of his words. She could feel it—the weight of the god's mark upon her soul. Franklin rose to his full height, towering over her. "You've been paying too much attention to my movements lately, Aurelia," he said, his tone almost conversational. "Be careful. Curiosity can be fatal, let's talk about this next time, I have more important business to attend to"

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In the heart of the Imperial Palace, where reality bent to accommodate humanity's greatest achievements, the Eternity Gate blazed with otherworldly energies. Through its impossible aperture stepped Franklin. The Throne Room, vast beyond mortal comprehension, seemed to contract around the three figures who now occupied its sacred space - the Emperor of Mankind, Malcador the Sigillite, and the Liberator himself.

The Emperor stood like a sun given form, his golden armor drinking in the light until it seemed to pulse with its own inner radiance. His face, when turned to his son, held the weight of epochs yet to come. Beside him, Malcador's staff touched the ground with a sound that echoed through dimensions, his aged form belying the cosmic power that coursed through his ancient frame.

"Pops, Mal," Franklin's greeting carried the casual confidence that had become his trademark, though his eyes held a predator's calculating gleam. "So, what's our move?"

Malcador exchanged a glance with the Master of Mankind, his cowled face impossible to read. "How are the preparations?" The question hung in the air like smoke from a burning world.

Franklin's response came with the precision of a well-maintained bolter. "The Prognosticators and Void Abacuses are ready for deployment. Unlike our current... solutions, they don't require the Astronomican's guidance to pierce the Warp's veil." His lips curved in a smile that held no warmth. "More reliable too. Less prone to mutation or... political ambitions."

The Emperor's nod carried the weight of worlds. In that simple gesture lay the death warrant for an entire class of humanity's ancient nobility. The Navigators, those three-eyed seers who had guided humanity's ships since the Age of Technology, had become a cancer in the body of the Imperium - too powerful, too entrenched, too necessary. Until now.

"The legal groundwork must be immaculate," the Emperor's voice resonated with harmonics that made reality itself vibrate in sympathy. "The Navis Nobilite's influence extends deep into Terra's bedrock. Their role in humanity's expansion during the Federation era cannot be dismissed without... proper cause."

Franklin's grin widened, showing teeth that seemed almost metallic in the chamber's ethereal light. "The power vacuum won't last long enough for chaos or other political powers to take root. The Mechanicum stands ready - Fabricator-General Cawl himself has pledged support to our initiative. Between Mars and the Independence Sector, we'll have seized their territories and assets, before the Navigator Houses' corpses grow cold."

Malcador's aged fingers tightened on his staff, psychic energy crackling subtly around its head. "They will attempt diplomacy one last time," he said, each word measured with millennia of political acumen. "Your refusal will spark their desperate gambit - assassination attempts against a Primarch."

"Giving us our casus belli," Franklin finished, understanding blooming in his eyes. "The attempted murder of a Primarch - the Emperor's own son. No one could deny the justice of our response."

The Emperor moved, and reality seemed to bend around him. "The Navigators have served humanity for Twenty millennia, but their time has passed. Like so many relics of the Dark Age of Technology, they have become a shackle rather than an aid. Their mutations grow worse with each generation, their political power more entrenched, their demands more egregious."

Franklin leaned back slightly, his mind already analyzing the likely sequence of events. "They've been growing increasingly desperate," he remarked. "They've seen the writing on the wall. With the advent of the Void Abacus and Prognosticators, their relevance is fading. Once this transition begins, their resistance will only grow."

The Emperor's eyes narrowed, his voice a quiet rumble of authority. "Their obsolescence is inevitable, but we must not underestimate their capacity for destruction in their death throes. If they are not dealt with decisively, they will become a barrier to the Webway Project and the future of humanity. Their plotting against you, my son, is all the reason we need to act."

Franklin nodded, a determined smile tugging at his lips. "When the new meets the old, it always ends with the ancient ways burning out in a blaze."

The Emperor allowed a flicker of amusement to cross his features, the corner of his mouth barely lifting. Malcador, ever the pragmatist, folded his arms and inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment of the sentiment.

Franklin saluted sharply, his hand crossing his chest in a gesture of deference. "I'll ensure everything is ready," he said, his tone resolute. "Once they make their move, we'll have all the justification we need to proceed."

The Emperor spoke once more, his words carrying the weight of finality. "Go, my son. Prepare. The old must make way for the new."

Franklin inclined his head in respect, turning sharply on his heel and striding back toward the Eternity Gate. The golden light of the Throne Room seemed to dim slightly as the weight of the coming conflict settled upon him.

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As Franklin Valorian stepped aboard the resplendent bridge of Sweet Liberty, The Sovereign AI, Sweet Liberty's Central A.I , materialized as an Eagle at the central console.

"Lord Valorian," Sovereign's voice was as crisp as ever, "I have received a communication. The Paternoval Envoy, Bolam Haardiker, has requested an audience with you on the planet Balam, near the Galactic Rim of Segmentum Pacificus."

Franklin's smirk grew into a sly grin as he adjusted his ceremonial cloak. His voice carried an undertone of amused sarcasm as he turned to address his gathered Primeborn Captains, each a paragon of strength and intelligence.

"Say, what do you think Bolam could possibly want from me? A heartfelt apology for the Navis Nobilite's plotting? Or perhaps he's decided to surrender and name me the new Paternova?"

"Maybe he's coming to offer you a lifetime membership to their exclusive Warp Travel Club," Denzel quipped, his grin infectious. "Free Warp transits for life—if you promise not to make them obsolete."

Armstrong leaned back, his tone dripping with mock seriousness. "Nah, I'll bet he's here to challenge you to an arm-wrestling match. Primarch versus... whatever he thinks he is. Winner gets control of the galaxy!"

Henry Cavill joined in, his voice laced with dry wit. "Or perhaps he's here to propose a truce—on one condition. You agree to star in their next propaganda piece: The Last Navigator Standing. I hear they're desperate for a leading man."

Franklin chuckled, his smirk growing wider. "Henry, if they wanted a show, they'd need a far better script than the tired drivel they've been peddling."

Vladimir Mendelev adjusted his collar, his delivery as precise as his intellect. "My analysis suggests he's here to request a generous loan. The Navigator Houses, after all, are experiencing… liquidity issues. Outdated warp charts don't pay the bills."

Director John Ezra gave a knowing smirk. "I'm betting he's here to invite you to a grand banquet. Poisoned wine optional, of course. Don't worry—I'll have the tasters ready."

Samuel L. Jaxsen crossed his arms, his voice booming over the din. "Hell no! He's not here to beg or barter. He's here because he knows their ass is grass, and you're the goddamn lawnmower!"

Franklin chuckled, his smirk never wavering. "Let's go see what he's got to say—before we liquidate them, of course."

The bridge filled with a chorus of amused murmurs and nods of approval. With a casual wave of his hand, Franklin signaled the crew. The command echoed through the pristine halls of Sweet Liberty, and within moments, the mighty Battlefleet Liberty surged into motion.

The colossal fleet disappeared in a brilliant flash of relativistic light, leaving behind only the faint hum of displaced space as it tore through the stars, heading for their next encounter with destiny.