In Eden's view, the Imperium's nobles had to be handled properly to purge the last pockets of risk in the Imperial system.
They also represented an immense reservoir of resources and wealth—enough to grease the gears of reconstruction.
More crucially, their hoards, sitting idle, hurt the Imperium. Wealth has to move and be allocated rationally to have value.
Otherwise the Imperium is a stagnant pond.
From a macroeconomic angle, the faster a polity's money velocity, the more new value it creates overall.
The livelier the system becomes.
Eden's plan was to use Dawn City and its express warp routes as the core extractor—to pull out the Imperium's hidden treasure…
…and set it flowing.
That flow would catalyze mass production and mass development across the realm, lifting industrial output and capability.
That is the key to Imperial strength.
If the economy and industry aren't there, no amount of soldiery will carry you far.
You hit a ceiling fast.
It was like his homeland once—so poor they could barely make rifles—grim and threadbare.
But after a century of growth, with industrial output among the world's leaders, they could unleash steel tides at will.
Big manufacturers could pivot to arms; even private firms' steel tube or gas cylinder lines could become "high-end weapons" in some backward theatre.
Not to mention drones and other high-spec marvels.
Once industrial capacity ignites, it overmatches the backward—utter dimensionality reduction.
Then tanks, ships, and aircraft roll off the lines like dumplings in a pot.
So too with the Savior's domains.
Today, his territories own legions of industrial Forge-Worlds, building engineering rigs, transporters, civic machines, and industrial goods.
Yet at need, those same lines could mass-produce super-heavy tanks and even light warships—and, under strain, a few engineering Titans that, armed up, could crush half the galaxy's petty powers.
That is the advantage of industrial depth.
Now Eden wanted to scale that advantage across the entire Imperium—
—to make a steel flood that washed the stars.
Improve lives and harden the realm.
After speaking with Guilliman and the Khan—and dropping by to direct the high-end residential build—Eden returned to the Sanctum.
For a long stretch he stayed in his office, studying dossiers on the Imperial nobility.
He needed knowledge and intelligence—to decide how to "receive" the high nobility.
He had resolved to move the capital, and drafted a slate of new policies—
—to be promulgated when the hour was right.
Years later.
Dawn City, Redemption Spaceport II–13.
The void blazed with red–amber–green guide bands, carving the airspace into stacked corridors. Ships streamed by in endless lanes—
—the sky crowded with traffic.
Most hulls gleamed gold-bright, luxuriously wrought—floating palaces that drew every eye.
These were the grandees rushing from every quarter to pay court to the Savior: high nobles, sector governors, guild consortium heads, rogue traders, and more.
They were the veins and arteries of the Imperium's giant body—mostly hidden, barely known.
In one baroque stateroom:
A dome of adamant gilded with obsidian filigree hung scarlet silks heavy with spice and rare unguents.
"Behold—Lacas' stars wheel like chalices spilled from the Ovelia gardens. The crawling wretches hymn 'Redemption' and the 'New Sun,' yet Terra's radiance never left…"
An eyeless poet declaimed over elegant Terran classical strings.
At the center—
Its master, Drew Ovelia, lounged naked on a fur-draped grav-couch, an ember-dark cigar between his fingers—rolled from a Catachan jungle fern; priceless.
Harvesting the fern cost lives—that was the least expense. Refining it cost far more.
With every pull, the air scribbled trails of pale-violet smoke.
Within it, a cat-eared shadow purred and drew breath.
This felinid handmaid served her exalted lord—the scion of a Terran noble house, Ovelia heir-apparent, son of a sector governor.
But before they finished, Drew shoved the girl away, impatient—shrugged into a silk robe—
—and stepped to the viewing balcony.
"So this is the Savior's trade-spaceport… what grandeur—what wealth…"
The megastructure swallowed his view—a shock, even for him.
It made any port in the Lacas Sector—that foggy trade hub—look like a toy. It exceeded the Terran scion's imagination by orders of magnitude.
Drew Ovelia knew what it meant: the future of Imperial—indeed galactic—trade. And the Savior would need men like them to make it run. These ports were built for them.
That gave room to bargain.
After all, if the Savior—the New Sun—wouldn't rely on Terran-blooded magnates who held the lanes and the manufactoria, the Imperium's veins and nerves—
—who else would he rely on?
"Much can be learned. Much can be bought. But only blood decides who truly matters."
So said the house founder, Xin Ovelia—once a Terran court grandee, now Lord of Lacas.
A thousand years ago, that ancient Terran line—raised in Holy Terra's core—was appointed to govern the Lacas Sector.
Since then, House Ovelia's grip on that crucial region never slackened, its influence radiating to neighbors.
A political–military–commercial behemoth. Unshakeable.
The uncrowned king of sector and surrounds—untouched even by Terran storms.
High nobles who held vast planetary estates could be arrogant enough to say: the Imperium needs us. Not the other way around.
Drew knew the power in his veins.
They were the Imperium's richest and most potent stratum; their roots webbed the sectors.
They bound themselves by marriage and blood into great alliances. Even if a civilised world was destroyed, a family tree that tall lost only a branch.
Not even the Savior's purge of Holy Terra, decades ago, had touched them much.
They'd seen too much of this. Terra changes masters; they shrug and learn a new name to swear to.
In ten millennia, the hands on the scepter turned dozens of times—several in just the past century: Vidia, the Ultramarine, now the Savior.
For the high nobility, nothing changed. Sectors stayed in their grip.
Blood endures.
The history that flows in noble veins is Imperial history.
"That Savior means to use the Webway to write his chapter—and cement his faction."
Drew dragged on the cigar. Smoke framed his reflection in the glass—he smiled.
Like many heirs, he could read a ruler's mind—or at least, each new ruler would play his advantage for a while.
They would have to close ranks and answer carefully.
He knew the Imperium's cruelty.
A title doesn't make life safe. The tragic ends of countless foolish lords proved that.
From birth, an heir-apparent is cast for a role—and schooled accordingly.
They learn reams: history, commerce, statecraft, connoisseurship, and endless etiquette—
—to fit any salon or council.
They also learn how to mask, to taunt with a smile, to read the weather, and to guard honor.
Drew, for his part, learned more in secret: the proper handling of poisons, the hiring and rearing of assassins, and bribery.
At the moment of truth, he would collude with some departments—even with an Inquisitor or two—to take what he wanted.
Too many cousins coveted the same chair. Even harmless kin needed preemptive measures.
House Ovelia had irons in every fire; its blood spread through agencies and trades alike.
You could take different paths to season yourself—military, bureaucracy, frontier opening, commerce, ecclesiarchy, arts—
—and feed the family from each stream.
Drew chose trade, managing Lacas' vast shipping lanes—a track the house prized.
He understood the Webway's value—every noble did.
So they'd galloped to the feast. To miss the Webway was to miss the future.
The only question was how much they could pry from the Savior's hand.
That took pressure—and sometimes a fight. The Savior needed to feel their weight so he didn't swallow their share.
From Drew's reports, multiple high houses and grand alliances were already coalescing—to press the Savior—
—to probe his bottom line.
If he yielded, they would, with silent accord, surge forward and bite a large chunk out of the Webway.
Soon the Ovelia flagship slid into its berth—priority docking, fast and smooth.
In fact, the Savior had cleared an entire spaceport to receive the high nobility—no small courtesy.
Notified, Drew donned a robe heavy with the house sigil, guided by servitors toward the core precinct.
Audience with the Savior wasn't yet. He'd sent the summons ten years in advance so more grandees could reach the table.
Those arriving by waves had time to tour Dawn City, to learn the Webway trade zones and policies.
They could also meet each other—rare chances to strike deals.
Especially for regions now linked by Webway—you had to know your partners and rivals.
Leisure Quarter, Spaceport.
"This place is nothing like the rest of the Imperium… a new aesthetic, a new culture."
Drew wandered a modern galleria, surprised alongside many peers.
He noticed something keenly: service staff here worked with high spirit—and showed little fear toward nobles.
Elsewhere, such workers would already be bowing in terror.
From their faces, many had been refugees not long ago—still marked by war and hunger.
Yet in a short time they now lived middle-class lives, their spirits remade.
That meant the Savior was generous, just, and immensely wealthy.
"He isn't a tyrant by nature."
Drew weighed the scene and smiled.
High nobles prefer merciful rulers. Mercy invites testing.
And a ruler squeamish about Imperial lives—averse to civil bloodshed—would use soft means.
Which left room to carve interests from his hand.
"Mercy isn't always a virtue."
He shook his head.
Were it up to him, he'd never waste so much on the low. Letting them live was charity enough.
He put that aside and strolled the grand emporium—a mall built on old-world layouts but dressed to Imperial taste.
"Why is everything so expensive?!"
Shock came quick. Clothes, daily goods, curios—astronomical prices.
Even an heir winced.
The luxury clerk smiled coolly, without rudeness:
"We sell Royal Warrant lines—authorized by His Majesty the Savior. Every piece is handmade and blessed by the God-Emperor's holy energies. Each is unique.
"Only high nobles are eligible to buy."
That said, she didn't fawn. Buy it or leave it.
These luxury houses were the Savior's harvesters by design—their vision, design, and materials crushed the Imperium's existing brands.
Some items cost as much as a light ship—bearing the God-Emperor's true blood-press—supremely rare.
Pieces infused with the Emperor's genetic molecules were holier still—sacra—
—auction only.
After one circuit, even Drew couldn't help himself. He bought a slate of garments—rarer and grander than his robe.
Some set with xenos lord scales and bone, with integrated shield fields that glimmered faintly—
—regal as a force of nature.
He added cases of cigars—priced at one hundred times his old sticks. Their leaf came from warp-ruin biomes, extracted by Aeldari methods and kiln-cured in the Holy Spire—
—then rolled on the thighs of maidens from the Raita garden world's convents.
The Khan himself, rumor said, favored them.
Receipt tallied, Drew blinked at the sum—enough to raise and arm several regiments of Planetary Defense troops.
It had been a while since he'd burned money like this. It felt… good.
Done with the spree, he took a high-speed lift to the Commerce Exchange.
Time to see his allies.
Commerce Exchange, sealed conference room.
"We should talk."
Drew thumbed his scrambler, then looked over the table at the other grandees.
Such as:
The Korda heir—of a venerable, tightly run house—owners of the Sys Bank, a cross-sector behemoth. Their wealth came from noble banking and loans.
They even printed "new currency" in some regions; many houses entrusted Korda to manage their fortunes.
The head of the Venthyr League, a bloc that controlled agriculture across whole sectors.
They held the grain throat of hive clusters, able to cut supply and trigger famines. No one crossed them lightly.
Senior management of Sayakana Conglomerate, whose power rested on hundreds of billions of workers—owning mines and refineries in number.
They also contracted xenos mercenaries and bounty guilds for grey-zone work.
There were several more of that caliber—cross-sector, even sub-segmentum reach.
Clustered around House Ovelia, they formed a grand political league—a net across multiple sectors, down to the roots.
This league governed its swath of the Imperium—and could, in a moment, ignite vast disorder.
And there were many such leagues across the realm—forces no ruler could ignore.
"Let's go straight to the point."
Drew tapped the table; eyes turned.
He pointed at the Savior's sigil on the wall, without much deference.
"The New Sun wants a parley with the high nobility. I propose we go in harder—force him to step back.
"It's not just us; the other alliances feel the same.
"Of course, this stays within amicable bounds. We'll concede what we must within tolerance—enough to appease his appetite.
"If he doesn't want the Imperium to rupture, he'll make the right choice."
(End of Chapter)
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