"Ah, Your Majesty, you are too kind."
Raynor's smile was polite, yet his eyes remained cool. "I am merely one of your new colleagues."
His tone was neither humble nor arrogant, but the choice of words was a calculated strike. He looked up at Caladogon, his purple eyes reflecting just the right amount of "respect."
The word "colleague" was used with surgical precision. It was a declaration: You manage your Noble Council, and I will manage the Planetary Governor's Office. Neither of us answers to the other.
Caladogon's green eyes narrowed slightly. He was visibly displeased, yet he found no immediate opening for a rebuttal. Raynor had given him "face" while simultaneously asserting total independence. To push back now would only make the High King appear petty in front of the assembled elite.
"Sit," Caladogon rasped, though the invitation felt forced.
Raynor nodded and took his seat in the first row on the left—the position of highest honor. His meaning was clear: I've played your game for the moment, old man. Don't push your luck.
The surrounding dignitaries watched the exchange with varying degrees of shock. It had been decades since anyone had dared to be so assertive in Caladogon's presence. Raynor ignored their stares and reached for the wine glass placed before him.
The glass held a dark red liquid that shimmered like liquid rubies under the chandeliers. This was Dorito's Aged—a specialty vintage from a distant agricultural world. With an annual production of less than a thousand bottles, it was reserved exclusively for the peak of the Imperial elite. This single cup was worth enough to feed ten thousand hive workers for a month.
Raynor took a sip. The flavor was rich and full-bodied, layered with notes of dark fruit and the smooth aftertaste of oak barrels. Exquisite. He set the glass down and leaned back, adopting a posture of detached observation.
The meeting officially began.
As Raynor had predicted, the "Uptown Council" was little more than a den of thieves. These were the men and women who controlled the planet's lifeblood, and they spent their time bickering over spoils and carving up territories.
If one family seized a production line from another, threats of private war followed. In essence, they were no different from the gang leaders Raynor had handled in the sumps of Necromunda; they simply wore better clothes and used bigger words.
Initially, they were reserved due to Raynor's presence, but when they saw the new Governor was content to simply sip his wine, and that Caladogon remained silent with his eyes half-closed, they returned to their "glory."
"Of the three starch production lines in the Dean District, the Kroll family demands two!"
"Bullshit! Those lines belonged to the Stone family. You stole one during the riots last year, and now you want another?"
"Stole? That was a legal acquisition! We have the signed documents from the Adeptus Arbites!"
"The Minister of Justice is your brother-in-law! Of course you have the documents!"
"Watch your tongue!"
"I'll say it to your face—you're a vulture with disgusting table manners!"
They slammed fists on the table, shouting and exposing each other's corruption. The council chamber descended into the chaos of a marketplace, though the vendors here threatened to mobilize private armies to glass each other's estates.
Raynor watched the spectacle, his gaze occasionally drifting to Caladogon. The High King remained a statue, occasionally sipping his wine. Raynor knew the old man was watching him just as closely.
Just as two nobles looked ready to leap across the table at each other's throats, Caladogon spoke.
"That is enough."
The voice was not loud, but it carried an absolute weight that silenced the hall instantly. The bickering stopped. Dignitaries straightened their tunics and smoothed their hair, reclaiming their mask of "decency."
Caladogon opened his eyes, his gaze sweeping the room before settling on Raynor.
"Governor von," he said, his tone flat. "You are new to Brevis, so you may not be aware of the gravity of our situation. Three days ago, a fresh Greenskin fleet made planetfall outside the Frost Forbidden Wall. Their numbers are immense. The pressure on our defenses has doubled."
He paused, allowing the fear to sink in.
"The Brontë Longsword Star Legion is at its breaking point," Caladogon continued. "If the wall is breached, the Orks will flood the plains and lay siege to this very Hive. We would be trapped."
He looked around the table, revealing his true intent. "Therefore, I propose a joint mobilization. We shall each contribute troops and supplies to reinforce the wall. What say you?"
On the surface, it was a grand, selfless proposal for the survival of the planet. But Raynor sensed the trap immediately.
Before Raynor could speak, the head of the Grumman family—a corpulent, fox-eyed man—leaped to his feet.
"The High King is right! Protecting Brevis is a sacred duty! The Grumman family pledges 100,000 private soldiers and six months' worth of rations for 200,000 men!"
His voice was thick with feigned patriotism. Once the first pledge was made, the others followed like a landslide.
"The Stone family pledges 80,000 men and food for 150,000!"
"The Kroll family: 120,000 soldiers and rations for 250,000!"
"The Industrial Consortium will provide 300 heavy engineering machines, 500 autocannons, and 500 million rounds of ammunition!"
"The Wasteland Walkers can field ten million militiamen for auxiliary scouting!"
The room buzzed with "quotes." Raynor calculated the numbers in his head. The Noble Council provided the bodies and the food, the Industry provided the steel, and the Walkers provided the cannon fodder. It was a formidable force, enough to buy the wall more time.
Only two people had remained silent: Caladogon and Raynor.
Just as Raynor prepared to make his offer, Caladogon's aged voice cut through the air once more.
"The House of Saint Garus pledges 400,000 private soldiers. Furthermore, we will provide the annual food supply for one million men."
He paused, the light catching the malicious glint in his eyes.
"And... one Imperial Paladin."