The Writ of Trade was more than parchment. It was a blade with two edges.
With it, Francis Harlock could pass through Imperial blockades, barter at sanctioned markets, and claim spoils in the Emperor's name. But with it also came the eyes of Terra, the whispers of High Lords, and the jealous scrutiny of those who had bled for centuries to earn what he now carried as a prize of war.
Harlock felt the weight of that truth when he docked the Arcadia at Port Helios — a fortress-station that clung to the edge of Segmentum Solar like a spider upon its web. Its spires gleamed with gold, its landing bays swarmed with customs-servitors, and its vox-channels never slept.
The first officials to greet him were not soldiers, but scribes. Robed men and women with quills of steel and eyes replaced by lenses, demanding signatures, seals, and proofs of tithe. They treated him not as a hero of battle, but as one more cog in their endless machine.
Harlock signed where they told him. He bowed when it suited him. His smile was thin, his crimson eye hidden beneath the patch. He endured.
Behind their ledgers came the true predators.
An envoy of the Ecclesiarchy draped in silks spoke of joint ventures and holy sponsorships — a polite demand to leash Arcadia's legend beneath the banners of faith. Harlock declined with courteous silence, his refusal hidden in a glass raised to toast.
A merchant guildmaster offered shipments of arms at prices so generous they reeked of poison. Harlock smiled, accepted the papers, then burned them before the man's courier had left the bay.
And in the shadows of the station's drinking halls, whispers reached him of darker things. Inquisitors speaking his name behind locked doors. The Mechanicus sending coded demands for access to the Arcadia's engines. Rogue Traders debating whether to bleed him in the open, or to wait for the right knife in the dark.
Harlock listened. He remembered. But he gave nothing in return.
Back aboard the Arcadia, he walked her decks as his people drilled and repaired. He passed training halls where children born since the fall sparred with dull blades, and saw outsiders struggling to keep pace under the bellow of Arcadian drillmasters. He visited the lower decks, where scavenged parts from the Rogue Trader's flotilla were slowly refashioned into weapons and armor for his growing force.
And in the mess, he listened to the crew. Some dreamed of the freedom the Writ promised. Others feared that freedom was a leash in disguise, a way for Terra to watch and judge. The debates grew heated, but all agreed on one thing — they would follow Harlock, whether into fortune or damnation.
In the quiet of the bridge, Harlock stood with his hand upon the helm. The stars lay ahead, countless and waiting. But behind every light was a shadow, and behind every shadow, an enemy.
The Writ had given them the right to wander. But freedom in the Imperium was never free. It had to be bought — in blood, in coin, and in secrets.
Harlock closed his eye and let the silence settle.
So be it.