Warhammer: Starting as a Planetary Governor

In the distant Gorry Sector, a sprawling region of over fifty star systems, Imperial oversight was minimal.

The sole exception, of course, was the collection of the Emperor's Tithe, the Decima.

Like most regions of the Imperium, the Gorry Sector was left to fend for itself against the ever-looming threats of war, mutation, xenos incursions, and Chaos corruption.

For the ruling Marius family, however, their greatest fear was not external—it was a prophecy.

A curse that had haunted their lineage for millennia:

"After the terrible storm, the tyrant of the Gorry Sector shall perish upon his throne, and his bloodline shall be extinguished forever."

The prophecy's shadow loomed large, its weight driving the Marius family to unspeakable acts.

They silenced whispers of rebellion with fire and blade, extinguished rival factions, and even unleashed plague upon entire planets, wiping them from existence—all to forestall their foretold doom.

Yet no matter how many they silenced, the prophecy always returned, a spectral dagger stabbing at their paranoia.

Five years ago, the foretold storm arrived.

And the prophecy had begun to unfold.

The Capital of Gorry: Matira

Within the opulent palace of Matira, the seat of the Gorry Sector's power, a crucial divination ritual was underway.

Chief Diviner Mondi, his voice a rasping crescendo of fervor, declared:

"This place reeks of corruption, my lord—it is the source of all that is unclean and vile!

The prophecy is no mere legend. The cards are clear: The storm has come, and ruin follows.

Demons will tear this sector asunder before the Astronomican shines once more!"

Suddenly, Mondi turned his staff toward Sector Governor Marius Halys, bellowing:

"You will die upon your throne, and your family shall be no more!"

Across from him sat Halys, a grotesque mountain of flesh ensconced within a throne bristling with defensive mechanisms.

The throne was both fortress and prison, its life-support systems compensating for his inability to stand under his own weight.

The governor rarely left this gilded cage, requiring his guards to carry him and the throne wherever he went.

Halys's eyes narrowed at Mondi's words, his bloated face trembling with rage and terror.

With a wave of his hand, the diviner fell silent, bowing low as he retreated.

Fear and fury roiled within Halys.

"Why," he growled, "why does fate refuse to leave me in peace?"

The Tyranid Threat

Since the arrival of the Warp Storm, Gorry had been severed from Holy Terra, its lifeline to the Imperium cut.

Warp rifts scarred the region, leaving little hope for reinforcements or salvation.

The governor's worst fears were realized when a message from the observatories arrived:

A Tyranid Hive Fleet had entered the sector.

Halys's face turned ashen. Even the mere name of the Tyranids filled his heart with dread.

"Damnable xenos!" he roared, his voice quaking. "Where is my fleet? Answer me!"

His chief advisor, Sheran, stepped forward, bowing deeply:

"Your Excellency, the fleet has assembled at Matira's orbital docks. All major warships are ready for deployment."

Halys exhaled a shaky sigh of relief.

"However," Sheran continued, "several planets have not responded to your summons. A few have outright refused, claiming they must protect their own systems. Here is the list."

He presented a scroll on a floating tray.

Halys's throne extended a mechanical arm to retrieve the document, holding it a safe distance from his corpulent body.

His bloodshot eyes scanned the list, and a cruel smile curled his lips.

"These traitors will be dealt with later. Prepare the fleet to launch at a moment's notice!"

...

In orbit above Matira, a massive fleet had gathered.

The centerpiece was the Armageddon-class Battleship, a colossal war machine over ten kilometers long, flanked by twenty cruisers.

Its hull bore scars of recent boarding actions, its corridors smeared with the blood of desperate combat.

Once part of the Imperial Navy, the battleship now served only Governor Halys, a symbol of his unyielding grip on power.

But this fleet was not intended to confront the Tyranids.

Halys knew better than to engage such a foe.

The fleet's true purpose was far more selfish: to ensure the governor's safe escape should the Hive Fleet reach Matira.

The citizens of the sector would be left to their fate.

Despite the Hive Fleet's retreat, Halys's unease persisted.

The near-catastrophe left him yearning for greater power—more ships, more armies, and above all, more control.

Summoning his ministers, he announced his intent to impose a new Eleven Tithe across the Gorry Sector.

"But Excellency," protested a weary bureaucrat, "the sector has barely recovered from the last tithe. Many worlds are already at their limits."

Halys sneered.

"Taxation is the sacred duty of every Imperial citizen. There will be no excuses. Those who refuse shall face the Emperor's justice!"

Within days, the bureaucrats of Matira began compiling lists, recalculating quotas based on outdated records.

In a dimly lit office, an elderly clerk sifted through ancient files.

"Urth," he muttered, "classified as a First-Class Mining World? That's peculiar."

He hesitated, debating whether to report the discrepancy.

But after a moment's thought, he shrugged.

"If Terra decreed it, who am I to question?"

The stamp of a red aquila sealed Erth's tithe assessment: First-Class Priority Taxation.

...

Meanwhile, on Urth

Deep within the underhive of Erth, Eden sneezed violently.

"Ah-choo!"

He rubbed his nose, muttering, "Weird. Is someone talking about me?"

(End of Chapter)

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