THE CHORUS ARRIVES AT THE PILLAR SOVEREIGN: A TALE FROM THE PALE SUNS
The Pillar Sovereign drifts in the void, the hub of industry and vice. A husk of plundered warships welded into something monstrous—a throne of excess, a gilded parasite suckling at the corpse of the Imperium. Skulnor flows like lifeblood, buying flesh, favor, and the right to exist another day.
The Chorus arrives like an ill omen.
Docking clamps groan as the cathedral barge of the Church of the White Sun latches onto the Sovereign’s flank. The ship is not built for war but for revelation—a shuddering relic of faith, its hull tattooed in scripture burned into ceramite, its bulkheads lined with the bones of apostates. Incense and radiation seep through the seams, sanctifying the air with their toxic grace. And then they step forth.
The Chorus.
Not men. Not quite.
A fused congregation of ruin and reverence stitched into a singular, pulsing form. Too many throats and mouths, a symphony of hunger and devotion. Their voices rise in a discordant harmony, a living hymn choked in suffering and exultation. Their robes—woven from the flayed banners of the Imperium, stitched with the flesh of blasphemers—billow as they move, carried by unseen hands.
Exchange enforcers recoil. Even here—among those who deal in the trafficking of secrets, the monetization of sin—there is a line. And the Chorus stands beyond it.
The lead Trader-Sovereign of the Exchange steps forward. His name is never spoken beyond the negotiation table, his face a mask of augmetic indulgence—gold, chrome, and the artificial glint of self-made godhood. “This is an unexpected honor,” he says, his tone oiled with amusement. “We did not expect the Primarch’s… emissaries to arrive in such splendor.” The Chorus halts, shifting like a wound struggling to close. They do not look at him because they are all eyes, all mouths, all voice. When they speak, the walls tremble.
“ABADDON CALLS. THE WHITE SUN MUST RISE.”
The Exchange guards flinch. The Trader-Sovereign does not move, but his augmetic fingers tighten, tapping metal against metal, calculating, measuring.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he murmurs. “Abaddon.” He tilts his head. His fingers drum against his ledger. “You wish to discuss acquisition, I assume?”
The Chorus shifts, their song deepening into something tectonic, voices layering upon voices, a quake in the marrow of the station.
“ABADDON IS A HOLY WOUND.”
The walls shudder.
The Exchange enforcers take a step back, though they do not realize it.
“AND WE SHALL SANCTIFY IT IN FIRE.”
A pause. The static hum of the Pillar Sovereign’s systems. The crackle of distant comm-feeds. The faint clink of the baron’s mechanical fingers against his ring.
Then, he smiles.
“Then let’s discuss the price of absolution.”