The Harlequins were born after the Fall of the Eldar gods. The Laughing God, Cegorach, fled into the Webway, evading both the predations and corruption of She Who Thirsts—Slaanesh.
In time, more Eldar sought sanctuary within the Webway, protected by Cegorach. Thus, the Harlequins came to be—followers of the first clown, the Laughing God himself. Donning masks and cloaks, they emulated his defiant madness and grace.
According to legend, the Harlequins are guardians of the Black Library, a place of forbidden knowledge so profound that even Tzeentch, the Changer of Ways, is said to covet its secrets.
It is whispered that this library contains the sum of all universal knowledge—truths that defy comprehension and terrors that should never be spoken. There are even tomes that speak of what will be, not just what has been.
One legend claims the Emperor of Mankind once set foot inside the Black Library. There, He obtained knowledge unseen in the galaxy—secrets that allowed Him to outwit the Ruinous Powers. With this arcane advantage, He forged a pact that enabled the creation of the twenty Primarchs, demigod generals for His Great Crusade.
But once the Chaos Gods realized they had been deceived, their vengeance was swift and cruel. They shattered the Emperor's mortal form, confining Him to the Golden Throne—half-alive, half-dead.
Even so, the importance of the Black Library remains undeniable.
Now, Curtain Walker Synnlaith, a high-ranking Veilwalker of the Harlequins, had emerged from the Webway. She stood in the presence of Dukel, Warmaster of the Imperium, not hiding, not fleeing.
Why?
Dukel's offer of parley was no idle gesture. If the xenos before him failed to present a reason worthy of his time—or his mercy—he would not hesitate to reduce her to molecular dust.
An Eldar daring to stand openly before an Imperial Primarch was unthinkable. The galaxy, it seemed, had gone mad.
Did they truly believe every Primarch was like Roboute Guilliman?
Even Guilliman would show no kindness to a xenos emissary appearing without invitation.
"You may continue speaking now," Dukel said coldly, seated upon a ruby-encrusted throne. "The survival or destruction of you and your kin hinges on your next two sentences."
Though his posture was relaxed, his voice crackled with murderous intent.
Even seated, Dukel towered over the Eldar before him. The oppressive aura radiating from his massive form pressed down upon the chamber like the weight of a collapsing star. Every Eldar present—save for Synnlaith—trembled under the pressure, their expressions taut with fear.
"My lord," Synnlaith began urgently, her voice trembling not from fear, but conviction, "your warriors are already ensnared by the Warp. They are surrounded by madness—brazen, uncontrolled, and yet led by a commander of terrifying power. The Warp-taint they radiate can be felt across systems. You cannot simply strike them down by force. Doing so would be your undoing."
She paused, choosing her next words with care.
"The Harlequins know of a passage—a secret vein of the Webway. With it, you could bypass the enemy entirely, extract your soldiers, and avoid a catastrophic confrontation."
Her tone was pleading, but Dukel remained unmoved.
"You have one word left," he growled, an ultimatum wrapped in ice.
The aura of menace surrounding him became so thick it nearly materialized, whispering with the echoes of condemned souls.
The chamber's temperature seemed to plummet. Several of the Eldar shivered, their hands tightening on ritual blades or trinkets of false comfort.
Only Synnlaith remained calm.
"I have spoken," she said quietly. "Our proposal is your best path. If bloodshed can be avoided, why not take it? Trust us—for now. I know the lives of the Eldar lie in your hands. If you wish to end us, you can. You will. But please—do not act out of anger alone. You are the Warmaster. Your choices shape the fate of the galaxy."
Then, she went silent. Her head tilted upward, proud and serene. She closed her eyes and awaited her sentence.
The mention of "the life of the Eldar" was no poetic metaphor. She referred to Isha, goddess of life. Should Dukel will it, he could crush the Eldar spirit by striking at their pantheon itself.
Synnlaith understood this. Her poise came not from ignorance, but acceptance.
Dukel said nothing for a time. He drummed his fingers slowly across the black steel desk beside him.
To the Eldar, every tap echoed like a doomsday bell. Time seemed to stretch, drawing out their dread.
Finally, Dukel spoke.
"It's... a reason to trust," he said flatly.
A faint breath escaped the gathered Eldar.
"But it's only half a reason," he continued, his eyes narrowing. "You may live. But you will not leave."
The silence that followed was electric.
"You will do something for me."
"Give your orders," Synnlaith said without hesitation, bowing her head.
"The finest hunters," Dukel said, almost to himself, "often appear as prey."
He looked up again, and now there was a glint of amusement—cold and sharp—in his eyes.
"If these enemies lurking in shadow think they have control, let us... educate them. You spoke of the Webway—so why not use it? We'll deliver them a gift they'll never forget."
The gathered Harlequins were stunned.
Dukel was already plotting his counterstrike.
The blasphemers of the Warp had united, setting a grand trap meant to ensnare the Imperium's finest. Yet the Imperial Warmaster, Dukel, was not thinking of retreat.
No—he intended to crush the enemy in a single, devastating strike.
Such thoughts would be dismissed as madness if uttered by anyone else. Arrogance beyond reason. After all, say what you will of Chaos—it is undeniably powerful. The ruinous energies of the Warp have claimed entire civilizations, razed empires to ash, and silenced the songs of countless species.
Across the millennia, the claws of the Dark Gods have torn through reality itself, consuming all in their path.
To even resist Chaos is a triumph. To defeat it outright? A dream.
And yet, amid the stunned silence and confused glances, Warmaster Dukel stood unshaken. The fire in his eyes blazed brighter than ever.
"In the face of Chaos," Dukel said, his voice cutting through the chamber like a blade, "escape is folly. The Warp thrives on destruction. War is its heartbeat."
He rose from his throne, each word heavy with conviction.
"Well, I desire war just as much."
The effect was immediate. His words ignited something within the room. Even the Eldar tensed with unspoken awe. The Primarch's guards—genetic sons of the Second Legion—gripped their weapons tighter, as if the mere memory of past daemonic battles was rekindling their fury.
Dukel's voice thundered again:
"Civilization and reason cannot tame Chaos. It must be answered with fire and fury. That... is my creed."
A rumble of approval stirred in the chamber. Even those of xenos blood could feel it—the pull of something greater, something absolute.
"These cowards lack even the courage to face me in open battle," Dukel spat. "They hide behind deception and shadows. They know they are unworthy to stand before me."
"And no matter how long the war drags on... I will remain invincible."
Those words silenced the room. No one dared interrupt.
Except one.
A warrior stepped forward—his voice like a hammer on steel.
"That's right, Father. All victories belong to you!"
It was Doom, the gene-son of Dukel. Loyal. Fierce. A silent sentinel until now, he finally let his pride in his Primarch erupt.
Dukel raised his hand, gently signaling him to quiet.
He turned to the gathered crowd—human and Eldar alike.
"The gods and daemons have ravaged this galaxy long enough. It's time they bled. We forged our weapons from conviction. Our blades are sharpened by belief."
"My warriors will repay blood with blood, tooth for tooth. When we sever the last daemon's head and drag the final god from their blasphemous throne to beg beneath our boots... then will our destiny begin."
The silence that followed was not fear—but awe. Even the Eldar, alien and ancient, were struck speechless.
His words struck like thunder, ringing in their chests.
"We have waged countless campaigns against the dark," Dukel continued, his voice calmer now, but no less intense. "From the desolation of Xi'rus to the siege of Argentum, we have triumphed."
"They think this trap will break us."
A sneer tugged at his lips.
"No. They have dug their own graves."
"This time, we will not merely endure. We will eradicate. We will sever their heads, destroy their souls, and burn the so-called heavens they dwell in."
At last, he turned his attention fully to the Eldar, his gaze fixed on Curtain Walker Synnlaith.
"If you agree to undertake the mission I will assign," Dukel said, voice like cold iron, "I will forge an alliance with you. An unbreakable oath—between your people and the Second Legion."
"Just as the Thirteenth Legion stands with the Adepta Sororitas and the Death Korps of Krieg, so too shall you stand with me."
"But if you refuse..." His eyes narrowed.
"I will carve out your hearts, cast your bodies into the Sea of Profanity, and consign your souls to the forges of Argentum."
"Though I am a general of war, I possess a merciful heart. And so—I grant you a choice."
There was a long pause.
Curtain Walker Synnlaith stared blankly for a moment. Her lips parted... then closed.
So much freedom... and yet, was it really a choice?
The rumors were true, she thought. The Imperial Warmaster was no mere tactician. He was a charismatic tyrant—a ruthless idealist cloaked in righteousness.
And even knowing that, she found herself compelled.
Though Synnlaith complained inwardly, the Eldar diplomat was no fool. After even a brief exchange, she understood the attitude of the Imperial Warmaster. Dukel did not hide his ambition—he brandished it like a weapon. Anyone who failed to grasp his intentions now was either blind or suicidal.
Dukel was unlike anyone she had ever met.
He did not adopt the mask of a victim. He wore the mantle of the aggressor with pride. To him, it did not matter whether Chaos sought war—he would bring it to them regardless. He would be the flame that consumed the galaxy's darkness.
Synnlaith's response was swift, her mind already adapting to the new reality.
"Everene and her so-called Death God Army are nothing more than the Imperial Regent's lapdogs," she said, with a sneer only an Eldar could make elegant. "Their strength is pitiful compared to ours."
She folded her arms, her voice sharpening. "We are here to assist you, Warmaster. If you have a specific plan, we await the details."
Dukel was unfazed by her derision. He expected no less.
Everene's close allegiance to Roboute Guilliman had long drawn contempt from certain Eldar factions. To them, she was not a warrior of honor but a pawn—Guilliman's "little hound." That kind of servitude left a bitter taste in their mouths. Not because they opposed alliances with humans—they had sought such partnerships many times before—but because they were not the ones chosen.
Pride ran deep in the Eldar.
Dukel nodded. With these so-called "clowns" on his side—and with access to the hidden webway routes—they could strike Chaos with unprecedented precision and violence.
It was time to give Horus and the Ruinous Powers a message.
The age of gods is over.
On Belia IV, the Eldar still maintained several intact webway portals.
Long ago, it had been a jewel of their empire—the site of Asuryan's temple and a central hub for webway travel. The Goddess of Life, Isha, had once known those paths intimately. But Isha had not walked the material universe in aeons. Only the Veilwalker could now navigate the fractured lattice with certainty.
Once a radiant world of culture and learning, Belia IV had become a haunted relic. Most of its webways were either collapsed or crawling with daemons. But a few remained—and they would be enough.
After the strategy session concluded, Synnlaith departed in haste, her stride light, her mood lifted.
Dukel had promised her something no Eldar could ignore: a chance to commune with Isha, the long-lost goddess of her people. It was an irresistible gift.
He had also lent them a starship capable of transiting the Immaterium—a rare and generous gesture.
Dukel was no fool. If an ally earned his trust, he would reward them without hesitation. Loyalty, once proven, was returned in kind.
It had taken several days to finalize the campaign, but fatigue never touched the Primarch. When Dukel emerged from the war chamber, he remained as composed and resolute as ever.
As he stepped into the corridor, his gaze drifted—almost absently—toward a shadowed corner.
There, a figure froze.
An operative from the Officio Assassinorum, cloaked in shadow, tried to shrink deeper into the darkness. He had felt the Warmaster's gaze and flinched.
Dukel said nothing.
The assassin had not been placed there for surveillance. He was a messenger—a liaison from the Lion. Officially, his role was protection. Unofficially, he facilitated covert communications between Dukel and Lion El'Jonson.
Dukel let the matter drop. The operative had proven useful enough.
The survival of the Imperium, after all these millennia, was in no small part thanks to the cold, silent efficiency of the Assassinorum.
Where despotic governors, heretical agitators, or treacherous generals threatened the Imperium's stability, the blade of the Assassin's Court found them first.
In many ways, the Officio's purpose mirrored that of the Dark Angels themselves—rooting out corruption in silence, eliminating threats before they bloomed.
That was precisely why Dukel had entrusted oversight of the Assassinorum to the Lion. No one else could wield that dagger with as much precision—or restraint.
...
TN:
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