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Chapter 4: A Warrior Consul
🕑 Added 2025-10-18 12:34:10 +0000 UTCChapter 4: A Warrior Consul
In the City-State's Senate Hall, Petros sat on the Consul's marble throne. His sheer weight was enough to crack and collapse the "ancient" 200-year-old seat. Antonius and another warrior, Markos, flanked him. The other brothers stood guard outside the hall.
The chamber was packed, filled with the constant murmur of whispers. Nearly a thousand of the city-state's nobles, elites, and their families were gathered here. The hall was never meant to hold so many, but Skaman hadn't dared to misinterpret the Angel's command: "Gather all nobles and their kin."
Skaman noted that even the secondary sons and minor branches of the families were present. He himself had obeyed to the letter, even bringing the young women of his household. He now sat in his designated seat, nervously watching the Consul below, who was about to address the Angel.
From his shattered throne, Petros stared down at the Consul. The man was dressed in a traditional white chiton and a purple cloak of high office, his feet clad in leather sandals. He looked unremarkable. His hair was graying, but his posture suggested a man who had not yet abandoned his martial training.
Facing the Angel, the Consul bowed low in respect.
"Angel of the Emperor," he began, "you have returned from the stars. Have you come to deliver the Emperor's will?"
"Hmph." A dissatisfied grunt came from Antonius. A mere bow was not enough. In his eyes, the mortal should be on his knees before the Lord of the Forged.
Petros raised a hand, silencing Antonius.
"We are not the Emperor's Angels," Petros said, his voice flat. "And we are not here to deliver any will. I have come to rule you. From this day, you will obey my commands."
"Rule...!" The veteran Consul's blood ran cold at the word. He decided to probe further. "You mean... you will become the new Consul?"
Petros shook his head. "I have no interest in your title. You can keep it. To put it in terms you will understand: you will all become my slaves. You will do as I say."
The Consul swallowed, his last hope dying. The Angels had descended merely to seize his power. It was madness. But he kept his composure, his hand sliding beneath his purple cloak, gripping the artifact his ancestors had left him. He had brought it from his family vault, just in case.
He tensed, calculating the risk. If he could... solve... this crisis in front of the entire nobility, his family's hold on the Consulship would be absolute for generations.
"Then... what is it you require of us, my Lord?" the Consul asked, stalling for time. His mind raced, counting the Angels, calculating. He subtly raised his eyes, judging the thickness of their armor, pinpointing the location of their un-helmeted heads.
In an instant, with a speed that defied his age, the Consul whipped the artifact from his cloak and pulled the trigger.
Petros's head snapped back, dodging the first shot. He raised his vambrace, which sparked as it blocked the second. The third beam struck him square in the chest, leaving nothing but a blackened scorch mark. Before the Consul could even register his failure, the Angel was on his feet, standing directly in front of him.
Hearing the shots, the Astartes outside burst through the doors, their bolters leveled at the crowd.
"Ha!" Phelon bellowed as he entered, seeing the mortal holding an archeotech-laspistol aimed at his Lord. "The maggot's got spine."
The Consul was completely stunned. This artifact had aided his family in countless assassinations. He had tested it himself on slaves in steel breastplates. One only had to "roast the black blocks in fire" (charge the ancient power cells) and insert them, and the weapon would unleash red death. They once had many "black blocks," but they failed with use. Only four remained.
In his world, no armor, no matter how thick, could resist that beam of light. His plan had been two or three shots per Angel. He had three more cells in his cloak. He'd even had a surplus. And these three Angels weren't even wearing helmets. But reality had shattered his plan. The Angel had not only dodged the beams, but had risen and closed the distance before he could even blink.
"A warrior," Petros said.
He spoke the word with a sliver of respect. Then he slid his combat knife from its sheath and back in, all in one motion.
The Consul seemed to comprehend. He reached a hand to his neck. A spray of bright arterial blood gouted from the wound. His vision tilted, and his head rolled from his shoulders onto the marble floor.
"AIIIEEE!" Several of the noblewomen shrieked and fainted at the sight, among them Skaman's own niece. He instantly regretted bringing the women.
Petros ignored the commotion. He looked out over the assembled nobility and spoke, for the last time, in their local tongue.
"We are taking this world. Who approves? Who objects?"
Silence. A long, terrified silence. No one dared to answer. No one even dared to look up.
"Good. Then we move to the next step. Those of you who speak High Gothic, stand to the left. Those of you who do not, stand to the right."
The crowd scrambled. They had seen the Consul's fate and had no desire to share it. After five minutes, the room was divided. About five or six hundred stood on the left; just over three hundred stood on the right. Skaman and his brother, having just set down their fainted niece, exchanged a look, trying to comprehend what was happening.
"This is the last time I will speak your tongue," Petros announced.
With that, he unclipped his bolter from his thigh-maglock. The THUMP-THUMP-THUMP of gunfire exploded in the chamber. In a single, deafening volley, more than a dozen bolters opened fire. The entire right side of the room vanished, reduced to a red mist and pulverized remains.
Petros switched back to High Gothic, his voice cold.
"I don't have time to wait for them to learn. Congratulations. You are now the nobility of this world."
Most of the survivors were clutching their ears, completely unprepared for the sound. It was like having a spike driven into their eardrums. But among the cowering crowd, one person stood out. A young woman, standing ramrod straight, staring directly at Petros.
She wore a white chiton, her golden hair tied in a bun secured with a ribbon, peridots, and pearls. Her chest heaved—not with fear, but with... rage. Her emerald-green eyes were locked on Petros, unblinking.
"What are you looking at?" Petros had noticed her staring earlier, but hadn't cared. Now, her defiance was singular.
At his question, the girl's body flinched. She realized, in that instant, that death was approaching her.
