The Primarch of Liberty

Chapter 136: Words and Actions



Franklin and Lady Malys sat across from one another, the tension in the room thick as the shadows cast by the dim light of the pavilion. Franklin had deliberately reduced his size to just under nine feet tall—a gesture of practicality rather than submission. He was still an overwhelming presence, his broad frame dominating the space, his eyes fixed on hers with an unyielding intensity that made the air feel charged.

The pavilion's atmosphere thickened as Lady Malys spoke his name, her voice a finely honed blade wrapped in velvet.

"Franklin."

The word escaped her lips like a weapon unsheathed, slicing through the pretense of formality. It was a calculated gamble, her tone threading intimacy and audacity together in a way that only she could manage.

The Primarch looked up from his seat, unhurried, his perpetual smirk curling slightly at the edges. There was no urgency in his movements, his brow arching ever so slightly-a subtle acknowledgment of the power play, no reaction beyond the deliberate arch of an eyebrow. His gaze, calm and piercing, met hers without hesitation.

"Aurelia," he replied, her name rolling off his tongue like a note in a well-rehearsed

symphony. His tone was smooth, layered with just enough warmth to intrigue but edged with an unspoken challenge. "Does my name linger on your tongue as sweetly as it lingers in your thoughts?"

Her composure wavered, just for an instant-a moment so fleeting that any lesser being might have missed it. But Franklin caught it. He always did. The slight narrowing of her eyes, the barest flicker of her lashes, was confirmation that his shot had struck its mark.

Recovering swiftly, she leaned forward, her elbows resting on the table as her gaze swept over him, shameless in its appraisal. "Sweet words for a man who claims to have no time for indulgences," she purred, her smile curving like a blade as her fingers traced idle patterns across the surface of the table. "But tell me, Franklin-do your hands command as deftly as your tongue?"

Franklin's smirk didn't falter; if anything, it grew sharper, the kind of expression that sent shivers down the spines of both allies and enemies. He leaned back in his chair, his massive frame exuding an unshakable calm, his fingers tapping a slow, deliberate rhythm on the armrest. "A firm hand, Aurelia, is often the simplest path to control," he said, his tone rich with quiet amusement. "But those who crave it often find themselves longing for something... more refined. Wouldn't you agree?"

Her eyes glittered with mischief, her laughter soft and low, curling through the air like smoke. Rising from her seat, she moved with deliberate slowness, each step a careful display of poised allure. "Refinement," she mused, her voice dripping with insinuation, "is a quality I treasure deeply. But I've found that the most satisfying results often come from a delicate balance. Pressure... and release."

Franklin's gaze tracked her, his smirk never wavering, the picture of serene control as she circled him like a storm gathering strength. "Pressure and release?" he echoed, his tone carrying just a hint of teasing mockery. "Sounds like an exhausting exercise. But I suppose you've always enjoyed pushing boundaries, haven't you?"

She stopped just behind his chair, so close he could feel the faint stir of her breath against his skin. Her voice dropped to a low, seductive whisper, the kind that promised worlds and demanded souls in return. "Pushing boundaries, Franklin, is where the real pleasure lies. The question is..." She leaned in, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her words a slow tease. "... whether you have the stamina to keep up."

His chuckle rumbled deep in his chest, low and dark, carrying an unspoken challenge. He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at her without fully turning. "Oh, I'm more than capable, Aurelia," he murmured, his tone thick with meaning, his smirk cutting like a knife. "The real question is whether you'll last when the pace isn't yours to set."

Her fingers toyed with a strand of her hair, a calculated gesture that drew his attention to her neck, her shoulder, the subtle curve of her collarbone. "Careful, Franklin," she replied, her tone edged with danger and allure in equal measure. "Some find that running too fast leads to... mistakes."

"And some," Franklin countered smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority, "find themselves caught before they even realize they're running." He leaned forward slightly, the chair groaning under his weight, his smirk never faltering as his eyes met hers with the weight of a silent promise. "But I suspect you already know that."

The tension between them was electric, a precarious balance of power and intent, each testing the limits of the other. Malys' smile was a mask of flawless control, but there was a spark in her gaze a hint of something wild, untamed, and thrillingly dangerous.

Her smile widened, a predator's grin, yet beneath it was something else-admiration, perhaps, or recognition.

"Oh, I like you," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Her posture eased, her back pressing into the intricate curves of her chair as she studied him. Yet, as her amusement lingered, so too did a realization: speaking to Franklin Valorian, attempting to charm him, was like conversing with a mirror-a reflection that not only parried her every move but jabbed back with equal precision.

Aurelia's smile sharpened as she decided to shift tactics. The air between them crackled with unspoken intent as she reached for a delicate crystal from the folds of her armor. She slid it across the table with a motion as smooth as silk, her eyes gleaming with purpose.

"A gesture of goodwill," she said, her voice smooth as honey yet layered with subtle steel. "Information on certain... rivals. Their movements, their next little escapades."

As she spoke, she unfurled an ornate fan, a flourish of artistry and lethality, hiding the lower half of her face. Yet her piercing gaze remained locked onto his, a predator still testing the boundaries.

Franklin, unflinching, reached for the crystal with the measured poise of someone who knew every motion was being watched. He examined it briefly, then looked back at her, his unyielding brown eyes meeting hers with an intensity that sent the faintest flicker of irritation across her concealed features.

He didn't blink.

Malys, despite her boundless cunning, felt the faintest brush of frustration. The Dark Eagle was impervious to her charms—not disinterested, but immune in a way that spoke of unshakable self-mastery. She held his gaze for a moment longer before her fan snapped shut, the sound crisp and final, cutting the connection like a blade.

The Primarch placed the crystal aside, its glow dimming under his touch. With a calculated gesture, he retrieved a dataslate from within his ornate Mechsuit, sliding it across the table to her.

"My turn," Franklin said, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of finality. "You'll find the reasons for my actions against your former Dark City within. Consider it my reply to your

'gesture.'"'

Malys arched an elegant brow as she retrieved the dataslate, her fingers brushing its surface. She activated it, her eyes flicking over the contents, their glint sharpening as the pieces fell

into place.

The information was damning. Detailed accounts, evidence of Asdrubael Vect's machinations —his raids, his theft of high-value research vessels, his meddling with Valorian trade routes. It was a dossier of power and leverage, a weapon as much as a gift.

Her lips curled into a dangerous smile, her fan resting lightly against her lap. "Vect," she murmured, almost to herself. Her eyes danced with possibilities, each more deliciously

vindictive than the last.

Franklin's smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. "I do not care for gifts with strings attached," he said, his tone even, as though addressing an equal while making it clear she wasn't. "Especially from a race that excels in deceit and treachery. Consider this from me to you-a clean slate. No strings. No traps. Just an understanding."

Lady Malys' mind raced with the speed of dark matter through the void, each calculation spinning through layers of possibility as she reached for the goblet. The crystal caught the light like frozen tears, its contents promising swift death to lesser beings. Her thoughts crystallized into razor-sharp fragments:

He indulges my advances like a lord tolerating a performer's act.

The realization carried no sting-she was too much a creature of the Dark City for such petty wounds. Instead, it sparked a cascade of deeper understanding. The Dark Eagle played their game of seduction and threat not out of interest or weakness, but from a position of such overwhelming strength that he could afford to be amused by it.

In that moment, her tactical assessment of Franklin Valorian underwent a fundamental shift. She had approached him as she would any powerful male-with a blend of charm and lethal intent, each smile concealing a dagger's thrust. But the Primarch was no mere warlord to be seduced or assassinated. He was a force of nature wrapped in transhuman flesh, playing along with her schemes while holding enough power in reserve to shatter her world.

The poison in the goblet suddenly seemed almost childish, like bringing a splinter to a sword fight. Yet she had to try-the Dark City's ways were written in her immortal blood. The attempt itself would prove her worth, demonstrate her commitment to the great game they all played. Whether he lived or died was almost secondary to the message it would send.

I am no one's puppet, her thoughts purred, even as she calculated escape routes and contingencies. Not even yours, Lord of Liberty.

The data slate's contents burned in her mind-precious intelligence about Vect's movements, his schemes, his vulnerabilities. A treasure beyond measure in the twisted spires of Commorragh. That the Primarch would trade such information for mere "understanding" spoke volumes about his confidence, his resources, his sheer unassailable position.

The poison would either work or it wouldn't. The alliance would either hold or shatter. In either case, she had achieved her true objectives: establishing herself as a player worthy of notice, securing intelligence that would elevate her position, and-most precious of all- gaining a measure of the being called Franklin Valorian.

If the Imperium's retribution came again, she had bolt-holes prepared, worlds within worlds where she could weather any storm. The Dark City had taught her well-survival was an art form, and she was rapidly becoming its master.

The soft clink of glass against glass shattered the delicate tension of the pavilion. Lady Malys

raised her goblet, her smirk curling like a predator's snarl as she said, "To alliances, however

fleeting they may be."

Franklin's brow quirked, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. He lifted his own goblet, his smirk mirroring hers in a way that felt deliberate a reflection of her game. "To

alliances," he echoed, his deep voice resonating with mock sincerity.

They drank. The wine was rich, dark, and lethal. A slow burn, creeping through Franklin's senses, telling him what he already knew: poison. It was potent enough to kill even a Primarch. His expression remained impassive, his eyes never leaving hers. Slowly, deliberately, he finished the glass, tilting it slightly in a silent taunt. Lady Malys' smirk widened as she drained her own, leaning back in her chair with the air of someone who had just scored a

decisive point. "Strong enough for a Primarch?" she purred, her tone dripping with triumph.

Franklin's smile was as cool as ever, his voice a low murmur. "Let's find out."

He could feel the poison begin to crawl beneath his skin, but the effect was slow, giving him

time. Time to make his move.

He was faster than she could blink.

In an instant, he was on her, his large hands gripping her neck with enough force to assert his

dominance, yet not enough to crush her. His lips crashed against hers with a ferocity that was anything but tender. The kiss was brutal, violent, almost punishing as he forced his tongue into her mouth forcing hers apart as he returned the poison with a brutal intimacy that left no

room for misinterpretation.

Malys fought back instantly, biting down hard on his bottom lip, her teeth sinking into his flesh with the savage force of a predator. The taste of blood flooded her mouth, a thrill sparking in her chest at the violence of the exchange. But Franklin didn't pull back. No, he fought harder, pressing her further into the kiss, his blood dripping onto her tongue as he slammed her against the edge of the table.

Her muffled snarl vibrated against his mouth as she fought back, her free hand darting for the dagger concealed in her armor. The blade shot toward his neck in a blur of motion, but Franklin's other hand intercepted it effortlessly. His grip closed around her wrist like a vice, stopping the blade mere millimeters from his skin.

For the briefest moment, their eyes locked again-hers blazing with fury, his glowing faintly with a golden sheen that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.

When he finally released her, it was with a shove that left her momentarily breathless. She

staggered back, her lips tingling with the remnants of the poisoned kiss. Her hand darted to her side, retrieving a small vial from a hidden compartment. Without hesitation, she downed the antidote, her body trembling slightly as the counteragent worked its way through her

veins.

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the faint sound of her breathing. Malys' smirk returned, though it was weaker now, tinged with something she rarely showed - uncertainty.

"You're full of surprises," she managed, her voice a touch raspier than before. "Though I admit, I didn't expect you to return my gift quite so... intimately." Franklin leaned back in his chair, utterly unbothered, his gaze fixed on her with a predator's

calm. "I don't care for surprises," he said evenly. "Especially ones that come in a glass."n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

Her smirk widened, though her fingers still trembled faintly as she set the empty vial aside. "Perhaps I miscalculated," she admitted, her tone laced with dark humor. "It seems I underestimated just how... resilient you are."

Franklin's gaze remained steady, his lips curling back into that faint, maddening smirk. "A dangerous mistake, Aurelia," he said, deliberately using her name as if to assert his dominance. "One I suggest you avoid in the future. Because next time, you might not

survive."

Her laughter, though soft, filled the pavilion like the hiss of a serpent. "Duly noted," she said, her tone as sharp as her blade had been. "But tell me, Franklin-did you enjoy it?"

His smirk deepened, his brown eyes boring into hers as he stood, his towering frame casting a

shadow over her seated form. "Not nearly as much as you hated losing."

And with that, he turned, leaving the pavilion with a deliberate, unhurried stride that exuded

confidence. Behind him, Malys remained seated, her fingers brushing against her lips, the taste of him mingling with the remnants of the antidote.

Tension lingered in the air, the aftermath of negotiations that had teetered dangerously close

to violence before swerving into an uneasy accord. At the fore of the group, Denzel, offered a lopsided grin to their silent Klaivex escort. His hand hovered near the ornate hilt of Kusanagi- no-Tsurugi, the subtle promise of violence laced with a veneer of humor. Behind him, Captain Steven Armstrong brazenly turned his back on Dracon Naezir, a calculated insult that practically dared the Dark Eldar to act. The heavy Tyranimite of his armor caught the faint light of the setting sun, casting reflections as his broad shoulders

shook with suppressed laughter.

"Subtlety suits you, Armstrong," Franklin remarked dryly, his tone imbued with the faintest trace of amusement. The towering Primarch's movements were deliberate, with an aura of unassailable confidence.

"Subtlety is overrated," Armstrong quipped, his grin widening.

As they approached the waiting Stormbird, its massive form a comforting sight of Imperial

engineering amid the alien architecture, Denzel finally gave in to his urge to comment on what he'd witnessed. He nudged his Primarch with an elbow - a gesture that would have

seemed impossibly informal to other legions but was characteristic of the Liberty Eagles' unique command structure.

"Frank," Denzel managed between barely suppressed snickers, "I believe you've just invented an entirely new school of diplomatic relations." Franklin, rolled his eyes with the practiced ease of someone who had long since embraced his

reputation for unorthodox methods. "Yes, yes," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone explaining something perfectly reasonable that just happened to sound completely insane. "Kissing the Drukhari Archon did indeed have its tactical advantages."

"Tactical advantages, he says," Armstrong boomed from behind them, not even trying to

keep his voice down. "You slipped her the tongue while slipping her the poison right back! That's not tactics, that's just showing off!"

The Stormbird's ramp descended with a pneumatic hiss that seemed to punctuate Armstrong's statement. As they ascended, Franklin continued his defense with the air of a professor explaining a particularly complex theorem. "The psychological warfare aspect alone was worth the risk. Besides," he added with a grin "who would expect a Primarch to return a poisoned kiss with interest?"

The scene that greeted them aboard the Sweet Liberty would have shocked any traditional Imperial observer to their core. Inside, the command crew had already prepared a hastily sketched banner reading, "Diplomatic Innovator Extraordinaire." The Primeborn Captains, the elite of the Liberty Eagles, had arranged themselves in what could only be described as a mock

award ceremony. Director Samuel L. Jaxsen stood at their head, his typically stern face split by

an uncharacteristic grin.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Jaxsen announced with all the gravity he could muster, which wasn't much given the circumstances, "I give you the greatest innovator in Imperial diplomacy, the man who has revolutionized cross-species diplomacy: the one, the only, Franklin Valorian!"

The assembled officers broke into applause, with Denzel Washington now fully giving in to his laughter, doubled over and clutching his Mech-suit's midsection. Vladimir, the Chief Librarian, was practically howling with laughter, his psychic aura flickering with mirth and causing nearby data-slates to display firework animations.

Captain Henry Cavill, the time-displaced warrior, stood at the back of the group, his expression caught between amusement and disbelief. Having witnessed countless diplomatic encounters across his life, even he had to admit this was a first. "I don't remember this particular negotiation technique in any of the historical records," he managed to say, which only served to increase the general hilarity.

John Ezra, ever the professional head of the Secret Service, maintained his composure the longest. He offered a single, dignified nod of approval, though the slight upward curl of his lips betrayed his amusement. "A most effective demonstration of close-quarters information

exchange, my lord," he deadpanned, which finally broke his own composure as he joined the general laughter.

Franklin Valorian, liberator of worlds, and now apparently innovator of cross-species diplomatic relations, stood before his celebrating sons with an exaggerated bow. He raised his hands in mock acceptance of their accolades, playing to his audience..

"My sons," he proclaimed with theatrical gravity, "let it be known that the Liberty Eagles will

always go above and beyond in the pursuit of successful negotiations. Though perhaps," he added with a thoughtful expression, "we should keep this particular technique out of the

official training manuals."

"Too late!" Armstrong called out, holding up a data-slate. "I'm already drafting the chapter title: 'Advanced Negotiation Techniques: When Words Fail, Try Tongue!""

As the celebration continued, Franklin couldn't help but reflect on how uniquely blessed he was to command a Legion that not only accepted but celebrated such unconventional methods. In any other Legion, such behavior from a Primarch would have been met with shocked silence at best, or accusations of heresy at worst. But the Liberty Eagles were different - they understood that sometimes the most effective weapon in their arsenal was the unexpected, the unconventional, the absolutely ridiculous turned into tactical advantage.

Director Jaxsen eventually called for order, though his attempt at seriousness was somewhat undermined by the occasional chuckle that escaped his usually stern demeanor. "While we're celebrating our Primarch's... innovative diplomatic skills, might I remind everyone that we

still have an alliance to formalize? Though perhaps we should handle the paperwork wearing protective gloves, given the circumstances."

"And mouthwash," Denzel added helpfully. "Definitely mouthwash."

Franklin Valorian looked around at his commanding officers, his sons, his family, and felt a surge of pride. In a galaxy full of darkness and relentless war, they had managed to maintain

their humanity, their sense of humor, and their ability to find joy even in the most absurd situations. It was, he reflected, perhaps their greatest strength - the ability to face the darkness not just with bolters and blades, but with laughter and light.