Throne Coins and Currency Wars
Mornings at Hera Fortress Monastery were always the same—training grounds roaring, morning bells ringing. To most, it was the sound of order and safety.
To Eileen, it was house arrest.
Ten days had passed since the "divine intervention." In those ten days, she had received treatment befitting Imperial royalty—literally.
Herman, stripped of his Inquisitor title, now behaved like a self-appointed butler. Every day he sat on a small stool at the fortress gate, radiating killing intent at anyone who approached within twenty meters.
Priest Mathieu delivered "relics" daily—mostly rotten bones and tattered cloth—claiming they would "nourish the saint's spirit."
"I want to go out! I need air! I want to see the real Macragge!"
Eileen sprawled across Guilliman's desk like a sulking cat.
Guilliman, who had been reviewing reports about several mysteriously vanished vessels returning from the Blood Ravens after a weapons transfer, sighed and set down his pen.
"Eileen," he said patiently, "it is not safe outside. Nurgle's fleet may have withdrawn, but—"
"But I'm getting moldy too!" she snapped, pointing out the window at the city beyond. "And Old Huang said staying indoors makes you short!"
[Child, I never said that.]
[I said if you want to go, go. I also want to see how prosperous this so-called 'Pearl of the Five Hundred Worlds' really is.]
Guilliman rubbed his temples. Ever since hearing her murmur "Goodnight, Robert" in the medbay, his resistance to her requests had steadily collapsed.
"…Very well," he conceded. "You may visit Magna City. With guards."
"I don't want Uncle Cole," Eileen protested immediately. "He's too shiny. He's like a walking light bulb."
"Then Sergeant Varo," Guilliman replied, activating his communicator. "Varo, civilian attire. Escort her. Low profile."
---
Magna City – Commercial District
Half an hour later.
Eileen wore a dark blue dress styled subtly after Ultramarine fashion—understated, but clearly expensive. Freed from confinement, she looked around in fascination.
Macragge truly deserved its reputation as the Ultramarines' homeworld. Streets were clean. No sewage stench. Citizens were well-fed. Holographic billboards shimmered above storefronts. Even robotic cleaners hummed diligently along the pavement.
Most importantly—
No gang fights.
"This place is amazing…" Eileen breathed. "Even the trash cans are chrome-plated."
Behind her walked Sergeant Varo.
"Civilian attire" for a two-and-a-half-meter Astartes meant a massive gray cloak thrown over light armor. He still looked like a battle tank attempting stealth.
Pedestrians parted in alarm.
"Madam," Varo's muffled voice came through his helm. "Remain within my defensive perimeter."
"Relax, Uncle Varo," Eileen winked. "This isn't the Hive. No one's stealing my purse."
She patted the heavy pouch at her waist—Guilliman's "pocket money." One hundred gleaming Macragge Throne Coins.
In the Hive, that sum could buy an entire block's loyalty.
Then—
A sweet aroma drifted through the air.
Eileen froze.
Her gaze locked onto an elegant storefront: Davien's Delight.
Inside the display window sat a golden fruit tart, topped with glossy berries.
Her throat tightened.
"I want that."
Varo scanned it. "Sugar content: high. Toxicity: negligible. Purchase approved."
They entered. (Varo squeezed in.)
The shopkeeper, David Hadrian—a plump man with a silk vest and meticulously groomed mustache—smiled broadly. He immediately pegged her as noble-born.
Easy customer.
"Welcome, my lady! This is our signature—'Hera's Kiss' Supreme Fruit Tart! Made with premium flour from Agrippina and—"
"How much?" Eileen cut in.
"Two Throne Coins," David beamed. "For someone of your status, practically free."
Silence.
Two coins?
In the Hive, a man working a month in a promethium mine earned 1.5.
For a tart the size of a palm?
Eileen's expression changed instantly.
Tourist mode: off.
Hive survivor mode: activated.
She planted her hands on her hips and leaned over the counter.
"Boss," she said coldly, "do I look like I just crawled out of an incubator? Two coins? Why not rob a bank?"
David blinked.
"Look at this crust," she continued mercilessly. "Collapsed edges. Only three layers. You cut costs."
His smile twitched.
"And this jam? Too bright. Real berries oxidize darker. This is food dye. Industrial."
Customers froze.
"And these fruit slices are dried out. Cut hours ago. You're selling stale goods for two coins? That's not premium—that's fraud."
David began sweating.
"…Then what price do you suggest?" he asked weakly.
Eileen raised five fingers.
Then folded one down.
"0.5 coins. And two chocolate chip cookies as hush money. Or I report you for food fraud and destabilizing wartime market pricing."
David gasped. "Impossible!"
Behind her, Varo shifted.
Click.
The unmistakable sound of an Astartes bolt rifle magazine touching armor.
His cloak shifted slightly, revealing a glimpse of ceramite and the inverted Ω.
David saw it.
Ultramarines.
His knees nearly gave out.
"I'll sell! 0.5! Take cookies! Emperor bless you! Please leave!"
Eileen dropped a coin, waited for change, collected her spoils, and strutted out.
"See?" she mumbled through a bite. "That's negotiation."
Varo logged silently:
> Recommendation: incorporate subject into Chapter Logistics training.
---
Ten Minutes Later
Reverend Mathieu burst into the shop with twenty followers.
"The Saint stood here!"
He kissed the floor tiles.
"The sacred fragrance remains!"
They seized the plate that once held the tart.
"Relic!"
Mathieu began preaching:
"She rebuked greed! Fair trade is the will of the Emperor!"
A crowd formed outside.
"Saint's Egg Tarts!"
David stared in disbelief.
Am I… rich?
---
Then came the Inquisition.
A young, ambitious junior inquisitor named Valerius led stormtroopers into the shop.
"Don't move! In the name of the Inquisition!"
He kicked over Mathieu's makeshift altar and pressed a pistol to David's forehead.
"Price reduction equals value distortion. Value distortion equals Change. Change equals Tzeentch!"
Conclusion:
Discount = Chaos ritual.
Mathieu screamed about blasphemy.
Stormtroopers and fanatics clashed.
Holy water bottles flew.
Shell casings scattered.
David hid under the counter.
"I just sold a tart…"
---
Hera Fortress – Late Night
Eileen slept peacefully.
Guilliman did not.
Two reports lay on his desk.
Left – State Church (gold ink):
"On Saint Eileen's Divine Guidance of Macragge's Market Economy."
Proposal: Fix empire-wide tart price at 0.5 Throne Coins.
Right – Inquisition (blood-stamped):
"Suspected Warp Ritual Through Market Manipulation."
Proposal: Dissect shopkeeper. Purge customers.
Guilliman stared out the window. Smoke rose faintly from Magna City.
His face twisted.
"I command five hundred worlds… billions of soldiers…"
He slammed both reports down.
"Why can a child who likes egg tarts cause more trouble than a Crusade?!"
He activated comms.
"Corquan."
"Yes, Regent."
"Send Sicarius. Remove both factions from the shop. Break legs if necessary."
"Compensate the shopkeeper. Relocate him inside Hera Fortress. He's now Eileen's personal chef."
"…And bring me the strongest Fenrisian mead we confiscated from the Space Wolves."
"Yes, Regent."
---
In the next room, Eileen rolled over in her sleep.
"You get what you pay for… Next time… extra cookie…"