Warhammer: Dawn of Annihilation

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The reception was held in an extravagant manor floating at the peak of the Hive Capital.

The manor's décor was opulent and majestic, standing in stark contrast to the filth and decay of the hive below. Under the controlled warmth of the ventilation systems, exotic flowers and plants exuded a faintly sweet yet oddly metallic scent, adding an artificial touch of nature to the environment.

Suspended servo-skulls carried crystal chandeliers across the hall, their glow carefully calibrated to provide just the right level of illumination—neither too dim nor too harsh.

Among the guests, carefully trained attendants from the lower hive walked gracefully, serving as wine girls. They were selected for their beauty and refinement, their bodies enhanced through technical augmentation to ensure perfection—flawless skin, long legs, and striking features. Each was a priceless jewel, untouched, awaiting the desires of the elite.

For those who wished to indulge, nothing was off-limits. The Grouse family ensured that all aftermath was discreetly handled, a testament to their vast influence and unchallenged wealth.

They held industries across multiple star systems, accumulating wealth at a pace unimaginable to the masses. Their income in mere seconds surpassed what a lower-hive worker could hope to earn in a lifetime, or even across generations.

For centuries, it had been believed that the Grouse family's power would remain unshaken unless they were declared traitors to the Imperium. But now, a new threat loomed—not from war or economic decline, but from the reforms introduced by Roboute Guilliman.

The old patriarch of House Grouse, a nobleman who had lived for over four hundred years thanks to expensive rejuvenation treatments, viewed Guilliman's policies as a direct betrayal. He had seen four centuries of Imperial rule, witnessing the unbroken stability of noble dominance. But now, Guilliman sought to dismantle their way of life.

House Grouse had been loyal to the Imperium for five thousand years. Now, Guilliman was stripping them of their privileges, a move they considered a betrayal of their service.

The noble houses gathered at the reception murmured in discontent. They shared the same outrage, whispering among themselves that the Primarch had lost his mind.

"This is madness," a younger noble declared. "For thousands of years, we have served the Emperor without question. And now Guilliman seeks to erase us? His long slumber has clouded his judgment—we, not the commoners, are the ones who uphold the Imperium!"

"Watch your words," an older noble warned. "To openly oppose the Primarch is treason. Do you wish to bring the Emperor's Angels upon us?"

"So what?" scoffed a noble from House Bendyk. "House Bendyk does not fear death. We are loyal to the Emperor and Terra. It is Guilliman who needs correction. The Emperor's system has functioned for ten thousand years—Terra rules the nobles, the nobles rule the commoners, and the commoners serve the nobles. That is the way of things."

The nobles murmured in agreement.

"The Primarch seeks to destroy this balance," the Bendyk noble continued. "He wants to strip power from the noble houses and give it to the rabble—foolish, weak-minded commoners! What good are they beyond throwing their sons into war and their daughters into servitude?"

"He would see us undone," another noble added bitterly. "House Grouse will obey only the Holy Throne of Terra, unless the Primarch abandons this madness."

The reception ended.

In the aftermath, the bodies of several wine girls—bruised, lifeless, and discarded—were unceremoniously dumped into the waste chutes, their remains scavenged by the wretched souls of the underhive.

It was a common occurrence. The nobles indulged as they pleased, knowing that no law would ever touch them.

As long as the bodies were never found, there was no crime.

Even if there were, the Grouse family's influence would ensure it was forgotten.

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The bells of the hive city rang, carrying the voices of Ecclesiarchy preachers through every corner of the sprawl.

Workers emerged from the factories, their bodies aching from another grueling twelve-hour shift. They shuffled onto the overcrowded transport systems, exhausted yet resigned to their fate.

Hawk was among them.

His body ached, his bones weary from labor. Through the grimy window of the transport, he gazed upon the towering cityscape, neon lights flickering against the eternal smog.

His father had been a worker. His mother had been a worker. And so was he.

Every day was the same—eating the same rationed food, sleeping in the same cramped hab-block, listening to the monotonous preaching of the Ecclesiarchy, or watching mindless, state-approved entertainment to pass the time.

In two years, the Fertility Committee would assign him a wife. They would be expected to conceive a child within another two years. Failure to do so would be considered defiance of Imperial law, punishable by heavy taxation.

Those unable to pay would be cast down to the underhive, condemned to life as scavengers and outcasts.

His future was already written.

The Mechanicus had calculated worker wages to perfection—just enough to survive, but never enough to save. The balance ensured that they would remain obedient, always fearing the abyss of poverty.

In this world, nothing ever changed.

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A conversation in the transport caught Hawk's ear.

"I heard the Emperor's son has awakened," someone muttered.

"And what difference does that make to us?" another scoffed.

"Maybe things will get better."

"Don't be a fool. Every ruler is the same. They don't care if we live or die. We're nothing but cogs in the machine."

Hawk remained silent.

Yet, for the first time in his life, he wondered—could things ever change?

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