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The Ovelia heir's proposal won loud assent from the rest of the league.
"Lord Drew speaks true."
The Korda family's heir nodded, a smile flashing a mouthful of gem-set teeth:
"The Lacas Pan-Sector League must show the New Sun of the Imperium our weight if we want the upper hand in this race for spoils—
"Especially where the Webway is concerned."
At the word Webway, hunger flickered in his eyes.
If their house secured Webway routes, their banking arm could thrust into wider, richer markets.
The profits defied imagination.
Membership in House Korda was tied to blood, yes—but blood wasn't everything. They prized ambition and skill more.
If the margin was fat enough, they'd do anything—even skirt Imperial law.
"Won't this provoke him?"
The Sayakana Conglomerate's young executive—augmetics from brow to toe—kept a careful tone:
"The New Sun can redeploy Imperial forces to Lacas with Webway speed.
"That is a major threat to us."
The Korda heir sipped and sneered. "We've never betrayed the Imperium. We've paid every tithe of the Eleven.
"The new Emperor has no cause to punish us—and no bandwidth. He wants stability more than anyone.
"Besides, our allies thread the Imperium end-to-end. If he butchers the high nobility, he'll plunge the realm into worse suffering."
Many sectors housed leagues like theirs.
If they resisted in concert, even if he threw every army at them, it would mean little.
He turned to the executive. "Miss Lukna, you're new to the league. Trust our reach.
"We're experienced at Imperium changes of ownership."
The high nobility had plays for this. Rulers of Holy Terra came and went; their moves were the same few strokes.
History had grown bored of them.
Even the vicious tyrant of seven or eight centuries ago, who butchered many High Lords, barely scratched them.
Only one gave them pause: the "Mad King" three centuries back—an Inquisitorial High Lord—who bled Lacas for a time.
But the roots held. Within a century they'd recovered—and expanded, spreading into neighboring sectors.
And the Mad King lost in politics—and died.
They didn't fear merciful sovereigns—only madmen. By all intel, the Savior wasn't mad.
He was merciful, rational—even in taking power, he'd shown restraint, keeping slaughter from spreading.
He'd even spared foes for the sake of lives below.
Those traits they liked—and counted as his fatal weakness. It meant he wouldn't start an internal war unless forced—
—and he wouldn't stomach the bottom ranks suffering for noble quarrels.
The Venthyr League's chief rumbled, "Right. If the Savior insists on invading Lacas—disrupting operations—
"Three days. That's all it takes to spark a famine."
"No one wants that," he added. "The New Sun least of all."
Drew frowned slightly.
"We cannot underestimate him. He is the greatest threat—and opportunity—we've seen in a century.
"The league must move carefully.
"By my reports, the Ascolon Sector's league has already put forward a stalking horse to probe him.
"I propose we wait for the probe's result—then act."
The Ovelia heir chose caution: let another bloc test the Savior first, learn from the outcome, then move.
They might lose the first-mover edge—but the risk dropped.
Ascolon was famed across the Imperium—
—broad, wealthy; manufacturer of las-weaponry and void-shield components for countless regions; tapping gas giants for concentrated fuels without end.
In priority, it outshone even Lacas. Its leagues were larger, knotted to Holy Terra and many Chapters.
Now they'd chosen a sacrifice to test the Savior—other alliances tacitly backing them.
Win or lose, compensation would follow.
A necessary ante.
They needed to know the Savior's stance and limits—to find his soft ribs and fight him with precision.
Some Lacas delegates grumbled at Drew's softness, but they assented.
Ovelia, after all, had founded the league.
Of course, the proposer would answer for the choice. If losses followed from his caution—
—he would compensate.
Once assent circled the table, Drew adjourned and killed the scramblers.
They parted for their suites.
The Savior's banquet for the high nobility was still three months off. Only then would they receive Webway briefs and policies—
—the opening of negotiation and bargain: route usage rights, ownership regimes, sector revenue splits, port tariffs… a thousand cuts to carve.
No one man's word would settle it—not even the Savior's. Routes ran only with every sector on the line cooperating.
Drew returned to the Himalaya Grand Hotel in the spaceport core and sampled the vaunted five-star service.
Novelty abounded.
As he tasted the new culture and commerce, he kept one eye on Ascolon.
The Wolter Dynasty, a hereditary puppet house, had begun resistance with multiple leagues at its back—
—blocking the local arteries into the Webway.
They proclaimed that the Webway belonged to all Imperial citizens, that anyone had the right to use it freely.
They urged the Savior to open it, not treat it as private property.
Like the other nobles, Drew waited to see the Savior's response—and method.
It wouldn't be easy.
If the Savior struck too hard and plunged Ascolon into war and want—famine, death, worlds cracked—
—he would be denounced. The nobility would sing it in one voice.
Other regions would copy the blockade, or simply let Chaos and xenos chew at their borders—until the Savior yielded.
He cared more for the Imperium. That was his weakness.
They had worlds enough to throw away.
If his hand was too soft, even better. They'd push for more.
Strip the Webway to the bone.
On his balcony, Drew drank in the Webway's jeweled void.
He tossed back his wine and smiled.
"The New Sun must know war and killing don't solve everything…"
The Terran-blooded Ovelia heir savored the wait for the coming feast.
…
The Savior's Sanctum.
"Haah… politics is still not my game…"
Eden flicked the holo of interlaced noble pedigrees off and rubbed his brow.
The high nobility knotted through the sectors—pull one thread, the tapestry moves. Hard to handle.
Harder than heretics and xenos.
"Ascolon is publicly attacking Your Majesty's new policies and commercial program," reported Tarko, the chief of staff, anger muted in his face.
"Worse, they're allowing heretics to cut key lanes. Our auditors sent to the sites were hit by unknown assailants—no signals returned."
Eden frowned, mapping the moment.
"They mean to band together against me. And yes—they've grabbed my weakness: sector order and civilian lives as leverage.
"Fleet or compromise—either route is a trap."
What he couldn't stomach was a civil war massacre.
The grandees didn't even need to stand in line of battle. A nudge here, an "accident" there—and catastrophe bloomed.
Whom do you kill for that?
He couldn't very well execute an entire sector's apparatus top to bottom. Even if he could, it would be a mutual ruin.
Heretics and xenos would feast.
This was the hard part. Winning a throne, and sitting one—two different wars.
And this was his test as Savior-Primarch, the Imperium's new Emperor.
If he couldn't clear this gate, forget reform.
"Majesty… are we to yield?"
Tarko understood. He sighed. "They're shouting that You should cede Webway ownership to the people—
"that anyone should travel it freely."
A dangerous line—sure to win most grandees' support. Mishandle it, and you'd face opposition on an Imperial scale.
A million civilised worlds. Not even the Savior could stand a realm-wide revolt and the chaos that followed.
"What—dare they call it usurpation?"
Eden's temper flared. "Do they know who they're talking to? The gall."
Their coveting of the Webway crossed his red line. The Webway was the keystone of the new order and future prosperity.
None would touch it.
"Then we go hard."
He slapped the desk—rare metals groaned and dented under his palm.
"They gathered a little wealth and power and forgot who is the sun of the Imperium—and how cruel the world is.
"Let them taste fear."
He fixed Tarko with a level look.
"On this, we do not blink. Ascolon's defiance of the Savior—the Emperor—is no mere sedition. We strike with a mailed fist."
He weighed the instrument—and chose quickly.
"Send Grand Inquisitor Deville. Tell him to make it clean."
Yes, the high nobility were hard to handle. But they'd missed one thing: this Savior wasn't like rulers past.
He was the Imperium's first true dictator. Even the Emperor of old could sit at the next table. He'd simply been restrained.
And his will was harder than theirs.
Tarko noted the order, then asked, "Majesty… shall we reschedule the grand convocation?"
New facts meant new plans.
"No. Keep the date—change the venue. Have the Urth Inquisition help construct the new site."
Eden's smile was cold. "No more dithering. It's time they got a course of the Savior's Loyalty Education."
The backup plan was greenlit.
If they wouldn't accept warm talks, they'd get physical negotiation.
Eden decided to take a page from Master Quankaka—and invite the grandees to the West Ice Vault Grand Hotel for special services.
He would show them: before absolute power, a "political alliance" is just an ATM.
Departments moved at once under his command.
He trusted Deville and loyal hands to crush every rebel twitch and lock the theater down.
…
Urth, Urth Inquisition Headquarters.
Cold, iron-built blocks hunched like man-eating beasts—enough to make any passerby shiver.
For years, heretics and xenos had vanished behind those doors—into torments that broke the unbreakable.
Down the dungeon stacks, penitent heretics and aliens knelt—each deeper tier holding darker trophies—
—xenos champions, even Chaos Space Marines.
At level eighteen, one could even hear a Daemonette of excess, weeping confessions—spilling every secret and tryst—
—including a certain Fallen Phoenix's embarrassing shortcomings and the fact he'd quietly swapped in a fake.
In the deepest cell sat a special prisoner.
He endured the tortures he himself had designed, body wracked, never letting a cry pass his lips.
He had entered the cell by choice, to atone—a proof of loyalty to the Savior.
"I must confess my sins—to be worthy of His Majesty's grace."
So Deville had said upon entering.
The Grand Inquisitor would reflect there on his unauthorized actions during the Great Purge of Terra—until the Savior called him again.
Suddenly, footsteps.
Deville slipped free of the rack, shrugged into a black robe, dusted the crimson armband—
—then stood straight as a spear.
His smile made his scar-mapped face look wolfish.
He was happy.
A familiar presence meant the Savior had remembered him—ready to unleash this hound again.
To lay more loyalty at His feet.
"Tarko."
Neat as a pin, Deville met the chief of staff right on time.
"By His Majesty's order: you depart immediately on a priority task. Dossier incoming to your slate.
"Do not fail Him."
No small talk. Just orders.
Tarko's eyes narrowed. "Your condition? Do you need treatment?"
"No."
Deville shook his head.
Pain and scars kept him honest.
Hunter-sharp, he bowed.
"Tell His Majesty: the Grand Inquisitor will carry out the Savior's will, and set all things in order."
Soon after—
—a dark-gold courier lifted from Urth in secrecy, slipped into the Webway, and arrowed toward the target—
—the Ascolon Sector.
In the ship's office—
"His Majesty has trusted me with too much…"
Deville studied the Ascolon packet—his smile turned eager, almost fervent.
Gratitude burned.
This time the Savior had given him full discretion—command over departments, armies, assets.
He was to end defiance of the Savior's majesty swiftly, lock down Ascolon—and more.
And there was one more line, written like a blade:
Use force.
Crush them.
(End of Chapter)
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