The son of the God-Emperor in Warhammer Fantasy

"That day, when you went to visit the Imperial Royal Zoo, this hotel attendant came in to clean," Olica began, as she and Sulia stood in the ice cellar, looking at the corpse. Olica's amber eyes showed a serious expression. "I noticed something odd about him, so I paid attention."

"Odd? In what way?" Sulia examined the frozen body, finding it to be an ordinary hotel attendant with no visible injuries, dressed neatly. However, the man's face was frozen in an expression of extreme terror.

"His shoes," Olica pointed to the attendant's footwear. "As a servant, he shouldn't, and wouldn't, wear white leather shoes. It's highly unusual."

Sulia glanced down, noting the white shoes. She narrowed her eyes. "Olica, you've found a clue."

Typically, people in this line of work would not wear white shoes, as they are easily soiled. In Ryan's castle, for instance, all maids wore black shoes, with Olica in high heels, and Emilia and Sylvia preferring low shoes.

"After noticing the anomaly, I followed him," Olica continued. "I tracked him to the Von-Schleck estate and confirmed he had a purpose there."

"A purpose? What purpose?" Sulia asked, checking the body again but finding nothing else. "Was he just a scout? Wait, was the Von-Schleck massacre your doing?!"

"Yes," Olica admitted without a hint of remorse, as casually as if she had slaughtered a few chickens. "It was me."

"How could you do such a thing?" Sulia frowned, displeased with the dark elf's actions.

"Would you prefer if young Devonshire encountered trouble? This was the simplest and most effective way," Olica stated, indifferent. "And I found more than just this."

"If you wish to listen, I can explain. If not, you can leave now," Olica said calmly.

Sulia's blue eyes reflected Olica's image. The knight's hand tightened on the hilt of the Sword of Leonase. She closed her eyes briefly. "Go on."

"I followed this Slaaneshi cultist to this location and learned about their plan," Olica began to divulge her findings.

She had overheard the cultists' plans at the Von-Schleck estate. The largest Slaaneshi cult in the Empire, the Pleasure Seekers' Association, had been plotting a secret scheme for years.

The plan was to replace Ryan and Emilia's son, young Frederick, with a false child!

"After overhearing their plan, they tried to cast a spell using Frederick's hair found on a carpet, which I interrupted," Olica explained, twirling a pair of butterfly daggers, specially crafted by the dwarf artisan Dron Fynson. The daggers bore runes for swiftness and harvesting life force, enhancing Olica's agility and allowing her to recover stamina during combat.

"You stopped them? Does that mean the plan has been foiled?" Sulia asked, still unclear on the situation. "Did killing them affect their plan? Why did you act?"

"It had no impact," Olica shook her head coldly. "According to my soul-searching, there are dozens of such Slaaneshi cultist noble family bases in Altdorf's wealthy district alone, and hundreds more across the city. These cells operate independently, with strict hierarchies and extreme caution. Eliminating one base won't disrupt their plans."

"After killing this group, I controlled one of the dead to move around for a few hours to avoid suspicion," Olica summarized. "I felt it necessary to inform you."

"Why tell me and not Ryan or Emilia?" Sulia's expression grew more serious. "You should inform all three of us!"

"Master is too high-profile," Olica said. "His actions draw too much attention. If he knew, the Pleasure Seekers' Association would likely detect and expose him. We might never be able to fully uncover this Slaaneshi cult. So, I decided not to inform Master for now."

"Then why not tell Emilia?" Sulia pressed further.

Olica remained silent, simply staring at Sulia.

Suddenly, Sulia's face changed as a terrifying possibility crossed her mind, one she dared not voice.

"You're testing me, dark elf!" Sulia drew the Sword of Leonase, its flaming blade pointing at Olica. Rare anger flared in Sulia's eyes. "Do you think I'm that kind of person?!"

"I never judged you, Lady Sulia," Olica replied with a sweet, eerie smile. "My duty is to inform you and let you choose. Your choice is none of my concern. I won't recommend any action to you, but I can say this: his existence is a potential threat to both you and Master. Am I wrong?"

"Olica!" Sulia shouted in anger, her voice shaking. "Don't force me! I don't want to embarrass Ryan!"

"I repeat, I'm not forcing you," Olica replied calmly. "I'm merely presenting you with a choice. What you do is your decision."

Olica raised her head, her amber eyes reflecting Sulia's image. "You love Master in your way, and I in mine. Moreover, you lack the means to embarrass me. Your equipment may be unbeatable to others, but not to me. You know I bear a similar soul mark, placed by Master himself. I offer you the choice only because you are the Lady."

Sulia hesitated, a hint of helplessness crossing her delicate face. She lowered her sword. "I'm not that kind of person, Olica. Don't bring your dark elf ways here. I repeat, I'm not that kind of person. You know what this means for Emilia."

"I understand," Olica nodded, sheathing her weapons. "That's your choice. So, let's join forces. Tonight, while the palace hosts a grand banquet, some members of the Pleasure Seekers' Association are preparing to meet here. The Von-Schleck massacre has already alerted them."

"Good. What's your plan?" Sulia glanced at the corpse on the floor.

"My plan is to do it again," Olica smiled.

Thirty minutes later, a group of guards and several carriages arrived, traveling along the cleared roads of the wealthy district to the noble estate. A guard produced a large bronze key, unlocking the gate.

The sound of wheels broke the night's silence as a nobleman, carrying a briefcase, was helped down from a carriage by guards.

"Welcome, Lord Lach," another noble greeted him. "Everyone is here."

"I know," replied Werner von Lach, a renowned baron and painter in the Imperial capital. Dressed in a Kislev-imported bearskin coat, his hair was short and graying.

He quickly entered the estate, while the guards formed a perimeter around the property.

Ascending the stairs, Werner reached the second floor and glanced uneasily at a painting on the wall.

The painting depicted a grand ball, filled with men and women dancing in a scene of opulence and madness. Yet, a closer look revealed a disturbing undercurrent: the dancers wore expressions of fear and unease, and in the mirrors, indescribable figures partied with them, some masked, some not, adding an eerie atmosphere.

Werner frowned, muttering under his breath as he sat at his desk, lighting a lamp and placing the briefcase on the table. "Where are they? You said they arrived."

"My lord, they're debating what to do next," a subordinate noble entered, bowing. "Some believe we've been exposed; others do not. We've paused the plan to lay low for now."

"Any news from Nuln?" Werner asked, frowning as he opened the briefcase, revealing a thick stack of documents marked with the Empire's double-headed eagle and Middenland's White Wolf emblem.

"None," the subordinate replied. "The Soft Lady has given no orders."

"Good. Leave me," Werner gestured dismissively. "Tell them to hurry up!"

"Yes, my lord," the man bowed and exited.

Werner pulled out the documents, examining them carefully while pondering.

Slaanesh cultist gathering places were hard to detect, often disguised as ordinary shops, inns, or noble estates. After centuries of hiding, these cultists had learned to avoid the eyes of witch hunters and warrior priests, corrupting nobles and clerics through leisure and entertainment. For many, the line between enjoyment and Slaanesh worship was thin, with some cultists unaware of their allegiance to Chaos.

But the Von-Schleck massacre had put Werner on edge, prompting him to prepare to leave for Nuln, the cult's main base, after the night's events.

In the dim candlelight, Werner studied the documents.

On the surface, the papers seemed to be a mundane military report. But as Werner applied a powdery, purplish potion to the document, a dark purple handprint appeared.

The largest Tzeentch cult in the Empire, the Purple Hand, was collaborating with the Pleasure Seekers' Association.

They had used Tzeentch's twisted blessings to create several identical replicas of young Frederick. The plan was to replace the real child, with even Ryan and others unlikely to notice the switch immediately.

This was the combined will of Tzeentch and Slaanesh, setting aside their differences to destroy Ryan. The two cults intended to temporarily unite against a common enemy.

This was the "Masquerade Plan."

Werner frowned deeply. If given a choice, he wouldn't work with a Tzeentch cult, but the Von-Schleck incident convinced him that the Pleasure Seekers' Association might not succeed alone.

As he read, the candlelight flickered, causing his eyes to ache. At that moment, a slight thud came from downstairs.

Startled, Werner wondered

 why the others hadn't arrived. "Is anyone there? Gael? Are you there?"

"..." The silent night offered no response but the wind.

"Gael?" Werner's face paled. He carefully stood, shredded the documents, burned them, extinguished the candle, and cautiously approached the door.

The deep, dark hallway seemed filled with shadows and illusions. Werner's shoes creaked against the floorboards as he tiptoed toward the staircase.

Gripping the banister, Werner cautiously peered downstairs: "?"

The sight made his heart race, his body flooded with adrenaline.

On the ground floor, all the guards and several Slaaneshi cultists lay in pools of blood, each killed with a single blow—some with slit throats, others dismembered or pierced through the heart.

"Mmm! Mmm-mmm! Aaaah!" Tears streamed down Werner's face as he covered his mouth to stifle a scream. He crawled back to his room, grabbed his briefcase, and pulled out a small flintlock pistol, unlocking the safety. He hid behind the desk, trembling, clutching the gun for dear life.

"Who?! Who's there?"

A shadow loomed behind Werner, descending from the ceiling. Before he could react, a flash of purple light filled the room, followed by a scream as the flintlock fell to the floor with a "clatter."

A purple butterfly dagger pressed against the baron's throat, accompanied by a sweet yet cold voice.

"Good evening, my lord."

"May I borrow your soul for a moment?"

_________________________

[Check out my Patreon for +200 additional chapters in all my fanfics! $5 for all!!] 

[w w w . p a t r e o n .com / INNIT]

[+50 PowerStones = +1 Chapter]