Conqueror from the stars in Warhammer

*Eleonora's Perspective*

The bluish light of the containment chamber flickered hypnotically against the metallic walls. Eleonora Wimbledon, dressed in a black gown with golden accents, observed the unconscious boy floating in the psychic isolation cell. The subtle smile on her lips would have been imperceptible to anyone less attentive.

"He tried to kill me..."

She laughed inwardly, a cold yet genuine laugh. Few things stirred her emotions during these monotonous days of political negotiations and tedious noble rituals. But this? This was... fascinating. Her ten-year-old son—a mere child—had nearly obliterated her with a surge of raw psychic energy.

She could still feel the pressure of the attack, even now. Fear was not an emotion she experienced often, but in that fleeting moment, when the entire room had transformed into a storm of warp electricity, a small part of her wondered if he truly could have killed her.

"He still has more growing to do."

"Lady Eleonora, the young lord's vital signs are stable. No permanent damage has been sustained," reported the tech-priest, his voice devoid of emotion. Eleonora waved dismissively. She wasn't concerned about William's well-being, but rather what he could become.

She ran her slender fingers over the cell's console, observing the boy's figure. So young, so naive, yet with such... raw power. "Impressive for someone so young. He will be useful."

But more than useful, he was entertaining. The idea that he had tried to kill her—not intentionally, of course, but through an uncontrolled explosion of emotion—was delightful. There was no trace of resentment in her heart. On the contrary, it only proved he was a true Wimbledon: dangerous, unpredictable, and, above all, worthy of respect.

She recalled the scene vividly. She had been testing him, as she often did, challenging him to use his mind as a weapon in a simple meditation exercise. But William, perhaps for the first time, had surpassed his own limits. Her psychic resistance had been crushed, and the ensuing explosion forced her to retreat. She, Eleonora Wimbledon, retreating!

"I haven't retreated since my mother tried to strangle me in the throne room."

That memory made her laugh aloud this time. The sound echoed through the chamber, causing the tech-priest to step back. It was never wise to be nearby when Eleonora laughed.

"He's perfect. So young and already so... lethal." Her tone was almost affectionate.

She switched off the monitor and turned away, her steps echoing as she left the cell behind. As she ascended in the anti-gravity lift, her mind was already formulating the next steps.

She knew William still needed shaping. Raw strength was impressive, but without control, it was wasted. He needed to learn how to channel that power, to master it. And, of course, he needed to learn obedience. "Not to me, of course. But to the game."

For now, she would let him believe he had won. After all, it was far too amusing to watch arrogance take root in young talents. And when the time came, she would ensure it was crushed in the most dramatic way possible.

"Oh, my dear William... you have no idea how high I hope you'll soar. That way, it will be all the more satisfying to watch you fall."

Her smile lingered—a smile that had no place on a mother's otherwise beautiful face.

---

**Training Days**

The sound of steel clashing against steel echoed through the training courtyard, mingling with muffled cries of pain and the harsh commands of Sir Mandrick. William, only ten years old, was a blur of rapid movements, desperately trying to block and counter under the supervision of the massive man. Eleonora watched from above, an imposing figure surrounded by her attendants and guards.

The wind played with her white hair as she observed her son, expressionless, being pushed to his physical and mental limits. Every mistake was punished with a blow, and every success only seemed to spur Mandrick to demand more.

"This is how a true Wimbledon is forged," she thought.

"He's not trying hard enough," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. A nervous attendant beside her dared to speak.

"My lady, the young lord has already surpassed other apprentices in—"

"Silence. I know exactly what my son is capable of," Eleonora interrupted coldly, her voice cutting like a blade. Her crimson eyes never left William.

In the courtyard, Sir Mandrick swung his broad sword in an arc that would have incapacitated a grown man. William barely dodged, dropping to his knees on the cold, hard ground. Before he could rise, Mandrick kicked him in the abdomen, sending him skidding a few meters back.

"Get up, boy. A true noble never stays down for long," Mandrick barked.

William gasped for air, blood dripping from a cut on his brow. His trembling hands gripped his sword, the fingers raw and swollen.

"He will rise," Eleonora thought, her lips curling into a faint smile of satisfaction.

And rise he did. His eyes glinted with a fierce determination, and for a brief moment, Eleonora saw a reflection of herself in the boy: a refusal to yield to weakness.

"You're going too easy on him, Mandrick. He won't learn anything this way," she finally said, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

Mandrick shot her a look that was equal parts irritation and reverence.

"Lady Eleonora, anything harsher will leave him unconscious."

"If he faints, it means he wasn't ready. Just make sure he survives."

Shrugging, Mandrick resumed his assault on William. Without warning, he launched a flurry of quick, precise strikes. This time, William blocked two before being struck again, this time on the shoulder. He cried out in pain but refused to drop his sword.

"Better," Eleonora remarked, crossing her arms as she continued to watch.

The training dragged on for hours. William was repeatedly thrown to the ground, his breathing growing shorter and more labored, but he never begged for respite. **"Stubborn... perhaps too much so."**

When Mandrick finally allowed him to collapse, Eleonora descended to the courtyard. Her boots echoed as they struck the blood- and sweat-stained ground.

"Mother..." William gasped, the word slipping through cracked lips.

Eleonora crouched to meet his gaze, a sharp smile playing on her lips.

"You did well, my son. But it's still far from enough. Remember: weakness is a luxury none of us can afford. Get up, or I'll force you to your feet."

With trembling muscles and eyes ablaze with a mix of pain and defiance, William reached out his hand. Eleonora didn't help him up; she simply stood there, waiting for him to summon what little strength he had left to rise on his own.

"Take him to the next session in two hours," she ordered Mandrick.

As she walked away, leaving the courtyard behind, she murmured to herself:

"He will either become the best, or he will be nothing."

Her smile lingered, cold and calculating—a mother's belief that love and brutality were one and the same, especially in a universe where survival was a constant war.

"My William. You will survive... because I will accept nothing less."

Her smile lingered, a cold smile of a mother who believed love and brutality were one and the same, especially in a universe where survival was a constant war. *My William. You will survive... because I accept nothing less than that.*

### Gael Wimbledon's Perspective, the Crown Prince

Gael Wimbledon watched his younger brother from the high balcony overlooking the training grounds. The dark walls echoed the clash of steel and grunts of exertion, but Gael's eyes were fixed on William. *"He's just a child,"* he thought, a mixture of disdain and curiosity flickering across his mind. *"But he fights like a seasoned soldier."*

There was something captivating about William. He was smaller and frailer than most noble children, yet he compensated for every disadvantage with sheer willpower. Gael could recognize that—growing up a Wimbledon meant one thing: learning to survive.

Leaning back in his chair, a faint smile played on his lips as Sir Mandrick delivered another blow, sending William sprawling to the ground. The smile faded.

*"Determined but reckless. Determination without control is weakness."*

Gael thought back to his own training with Mandrick. It had been different. He had always known when to retreat, when to feign weakness to mislead an opponent, when to manipulate the rhythm of a fight. William, however, burned through his energy as if each battle were his last.

*"If he learns to channel that, he could be dangerous. Too dangerous."*

Still, Gael couldn't deny that William entertained him. He was unpredictable, a rare and valuable trait in a universe where most followed preordained scripts. *"He's still naïve. He doesn't understand how the game is played. I can use that."*

His thoughts drifted to a recent conversation with their father. Valadares Wimbledon, ever composed, had given explicit orders: prepare William to integrate into noble society. Gael knew exactly what that meant. The boy needed to be tested, shaped—and, if necessary, neutralized.

"He's making good progress," Gael remarked, his tone almost lazy, speaking to no one in particular. He stood and descended the stairs, entering the courtyard just as William staggered back to his feet, blood trickling from a cut on his lip.

"That's the best you can do, little brother?" Gael taunted, his voice dripping with mockery.

William glared at him, his red eyes glowing under the artificial lights. He didn't respond, but Gael saw the fire of determination in his gaze. *"Good. The boy has spirit."*

"That's enough for today, Mandrick," Gael said with a dismissive wave. The weapons master hesitated for a moment, then nodded and stepped back.

William collapsed to his knees, panting. Gael approached him, extending a hand. The boy hesitated but eventually took it.

"You're stubborn, I'll give you that. But stubbornness isn't everything, William. A true Wimbledon wins not just with strength but with cunning."

William said nothing, only stared back. Gael smiled—a cold, calculated smile.

"You have potential, little brother. I can see it. But potential isn't enough. Let's see if you can survive what comes next."

As William was led away to rest, Gael remained in the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the dark skies of Kronvar. He didn't hate William. On the contrary, he felt a strange sense of pride. But he also understood that, in the game of nobility, emotions were a dangerous luxury.

*"If he's strong enough, he'll be my ally. If not, he'll just be another disposable pawn."*

Gael's smile returned, darker this time. William's future hinged on his ability to endure the trials ahead—trials Gael was more than willing to create. After all, a Wimbledon was forged not through love, but through challenges. And Gael was a master at providing both.