And that unease came from the Empire's New Sun. He could not name its source.
So the Ovelia heir chose patience.
He was ancient-Terran stock, elite-schooled; a high noble must read the board.
And at times, instinct mattered most.
The Ovelia archives bulged with histories. Drew loved to mine their dust for lessons—
One above all: when temptation comes, keep a clear head.
The webway's profits could drive men mad.
But in the hinge-hours of history, one wrong choice—or one step against the tide—could bury a house.
Caution first.
Having refused Korda, Drew fell silent.
The others said no more. They knew the limits of their own remits—and when to keep their counsel.
SCREE—SCREE—
The shuttle settled onto a landing plate. The ramp yawned open; the clamor outside rolled in.
They disembarked.
On foot, they took the two-kilometer promenade toward a severe, industrial-chic hotel structure.
The walkway was already packed—masses of high nobles from across the Empire.
Drew and his party had scarcely cleared the ramp when pressure fell on their lungs and a hush stole their breath.
Because lining both sides of the path were Titan god-engines, towering and hung with streamers and banners—as if welcoming honored guests from afar.
Even as decor, such giants weighed on every passerby.
"So this is the Empire's New Sun's strength," Drew murmured, drawing a long breath. He'd heard the rumors—yet the sight still shook him.
Across Imperial space, no one save the Savior could muster so many Titan Legios at once.
A demonstration, plainly enough.
But intimidation would not quench the nobles' hunger for the webway.
After the first shock, more than a few lips curled.
In their view, such pageantry was the Savior's last resort—a substitute for more effective measures he dared not take.
They walked on. Vigilant Emperor's Angels patrolled in force—Space Marines providing the cordon.
Soon they reached a vast Hall of Honors before the hotel.
Banners heavy with battle-honors lined the walls; holos and reliefs froze the Savior's wars in deathless scenes.
At center, a statue hundreds of meters tall depicted the Emperor crowning the Savior.
Elsewhere were statues and projections spanning the Savior's eras—
Governor of Urth executing traitors in public; bleeding the hosts of Chaos on Macragge; shattering Be'lakor in the Charadon theater;
standing before Tyranid tides at Erebus and Baal; crossing blades with a Bloodthirster of singular title…
"Perhaps the New Sun's will is more resolute—and cruel—than we imagine," Drew said quietly before a statue in which the Savior, as daemon-eater, tore a fiend in half, drenched in vile ichor.
He lingered before several recordings of the Savior executing traitors—
And his unease deepened to outright doubt.
Others in the League halted as well, studying their core member.
Korda's heir scowled.
"Lord Drew, what's this? Don't tell me you're cowed by props?
"This is exactly when we mustn't let theatrics sap our resolve."
Drew ignored him—staring instead at the hotel's gemstone-studded gates. For a heartbeat he saw a colossal maw.
His instincts whispered of the oncoming peril.
This hall, he realized, was the Savior's final warning.
The histories were clear: before the New Sun broke traitors, he offered a last chance.
Miss it—and only the thunder remained.
But… can the New Sun truly hold the board?
Sweat beaded on Drew's brow.
At last he chose—and opened a private channel to the League:
"Friends, change of plan. The League will not pressure the New Sun. We pivot—immediately—to goodwill.
"I have reason to believe he has both control of the field and the will to pay any price. Moreover, he has already moved.
"If we don't seize this chance, we'll be struck—and struck hard."