In the heart of the hidden dimension of the Webway, the Twilight City of Commorragh stretched out its perverse and immense architecture. Its impossible spires pierced an artificial sky littered with dying stars and suffering nebulae. Vaster than entire star systems, it was a conglomerate of kingdoms and metropolises linked by dimensional gates and secret paths, a megalopolis of suffering and decadence.
Right now, in a Council chamber with walls of petrified flesh and sculpted bone, an unusual tension reigned. Six Archons, rival warlords in ornamental armor and arrogant masks, faced each other. The subject of their meeting? A silent hemorrhage that was beginning to threaten their power and profits.
"They are disappearing!" hissed one of them, Archon Khelvarr, striking the obsidian table with his gauntlet. "My harvesting raids on the frontier world Xylos-77. Two of my razorcraft, a hundred of my best Kabalites... gone. No distress signal, no debris. Only a final, fragmented message speaking of... ghost hunters."
Another Archon, a cruel female named Lysandra, sneered. "Perhaps your warriors simply ran off with the spoils, Khelvarr. Loyalty is a rare commodity, even here."
"Not my warriors," growled Khelvarr. "And not just mine. Reports are flooding in from everywhere. Entire raids are being wiped out outside known conflict zones. Not by the brutal Mon'keigh, nor by the warriors of the nascent Empire. These are surgical strikes. Clean. Efficient."
A third Archon, older with graying dreadlocks, spoke, his voice a worn rasp. "They do not take the slaves. They do not steal the artifacts. They do not even seek to conquer territory. They... collect. They take heads. Trophies."
The word "trophies" made the assembly shudder. For beings who lived to inflict fear, the idea of being considered prey themselves was an absolute insult, a violation of the natural order as they conceived it.
It was then that the doors of the Council chamber opened without a sound, admitting a presence that chilled even the blood of the Drukhari. Three Haemonculi from the Covens of Eternal Lamentation glided inside. Their forms were slender, almost spectral, hidden beneath heavy robes, but one could sense the deformities and monstrous enhancements concealed beneath. Their leader, Master Haemonculus Vexil, spoke in a voice both honeyed and cold that seemed to seep from the walls.
"An interesting rumor has reached us, noble Archons," he hissed. "There is talk of new prey. Of unknown hunters. And most importantly... there is talk of their blood."
He produced from beneath his robe a glass container holding a few drops of a thick, fluorescent green liquid that pulsed with a faint inner light.
"A shard of a blade recovered from the remains of one of your... failures," he said, looking at Khelvarr with contempt. "The blood of these hunters is of a fascinating biological composition. Remarkable cellular resilience, a genetic signature of primitive savagery, yet channeled. The possibilities... are exquisite."
His eyes, invisible in the shadow of his hood, seemed to glow with a macabre greed. "The Covens want these new prey. Deliver these glowing green-blooded hunters to us. Alive, preferably. Their bodies will provide the raw material for new living art, their screams will compose a new symphony of pain. Their hunt has lasted long enough. It is time to reverse the roles."
The Council fell silent. The threat was clear. The Archons were losing manpower and prestige. The Haemonculi, the true shadow powers of Commorragh, saw a new resource and demanded results.
The Shadows, for the first time, felt hunted in their own lair. And the greatest monsters of the Twilight City had just declared their interest. The hunt had just taken on a far more dangerous dimension.