The Cult of Pain Eternal was not for those who wished to languor in the safe and predictable environs of Commorragh. They conducted the business expected of a wych cult—contracting their gladiators, selling their beast pens, coordinating events in the Apostasium—but they did so solely as a means to secure funding and spread their message. The caged setting of an arena was like bondage to their members. The fixed nature of colosseum arrangements precluded surprise. The opponents provided were paltry, most of them too broken or too mindless to provide satisfaction.

  Where other drukhari were philistines who lapped up any dregs within their grasps, the succubi mistresses of pain eternal professed a refined aim: to slake their thirst with the lifeblood of gods. Only by facing the maelstroms wrought by those who bent reality could they find excitement. Only by felling the beloved champions of faithful masses could true despair be squeezed from broken hearts. Only by challenging the warp spawn of empyrean could the greatest feats be achieved.

  Only by daring in the face of divinity and damnation could freedom be achieved.

  Syren Abominatrix had taken some batches of aspirants with her onto this expedition headed by the Kabal of the Strangled Breath. They were debutantes, fresh from the bloody shanties of Sec Maegra, and they would complete their induction with her by scouting a shattered shrineworld. Here, the debutantes would whet their appetite by desecrating all that was sacred and defiling all that was holy. If the world had greater challenges to offer, then the other bloodbrides of the cult may follow.

  Abominatrix invited a few of the wyches to her quarters. Who did not matter, as none of them were remarkable enough to be of note. The invitees accepted, grateful to be out of the berthing area that was cramped with hellion riff raff, or wise enough not to turn down their mistress’ magnanimity.

  The five of them were bare and had their hands restrained by barbed wire. A knife in their teeth was their only weapon. Their opponent was a grimnyr, a psychically resonant model of the squatkin clones, the closest they had to prophets of their machine gods. He was without the technology necessary to convert his psychic power into offensive capability, but he was still a boulder of muscle wrapped in thick leathery skin. He could still crush bones, and the length of the knives only pierced so deep.

  Abommy lounged in her bed as she watched the spectacle unfold. It was like watching virgin lovers, too stubborn and excited to admit their inexperience as they fumbled about, overeager in their clumsy performance. Exactly as Abommy had hoped.

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  The debutantes were keen to not let a private audience with the Syren go to waste, especially keen not to disappoint or upset her. Their true competition was not the captive but each other. They bit the hafts of their knives tightly and hunched low, stance wide. This was a practice in balance. They had to get ahead of each other to impress, but too much haste would see them topple over or be crumpled by a stout fist. They circled him, prowling like velociraptors, concocting the perfect plan, waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  The squat had to balance his rage. Abommy had been with the succubi when the cult killed his machine god. The contraption was said to hold the souls of his fallen kin. It was crude imitation of the craftworld cousins’ infinity circuits, yet it meant everything to the squats. The adorable little thing was still in a state of eye bulging anger at the sight of Abominatrix, but he had to temper that fury against the knifepoints surrounding him.

  When ambushed, the wisest maneuver was to pick a direction to push free through. He was a wise prophet indeed then, for he made the first move to do exactly that. A wych darted at him to slash his eyes and he barreled through her shoulder first. She held onto her knife as she fell. Now, he had them all in front of him, with only a scratch on the shoulder incurred.

  No longer concerned with waiting for the perfect opportunity, the remaining wyches pounced. Uncoordinated as they were, the squat did not know that. All he saw were the knives rushing him, with another getting back up to do the same. He could go for a debilitating blow to reduce the number of aggressors, but there was no guarantee his killshot would not turn into an overextension that left him open.

  He shoved them aside as they came, the safe route still a credit to his focus and reflexes, yet the knicks and grazes added up to crimson ribbons that draped his body. The blood loss sapped his focus, and the cut muscles ignored commands. Scratches turned to lacerations turned to hemorrhaging gashes. His opponents were bruised, blinded even, but their teeth still clenched their blades.

  He roared, and charged forward through the whirlwind of slashes, heedless of any further injury. The wyches scrambled to give chase but were halted by Abommy’s raised palm. He leapt onto her bed and scuttled up, eyes bulging, mouth frothing. She pulled her leg out of the covers and laid her sole on his forehead. The momentum of his rage sputtered out. He flailed his arms. He gnashed his teeth. He bled on her sheets. He puffed his last breaths. And he slumped to a corpse under her heel.

  The wyches were dismissed. Their mistress was entertained. For the Cult of Pain Eternal, that was the highest accolade.