When the projection of the [Unyielding Truth] appeared before Morgan's eyes, she was making her final preparations.
Invisible tides churned in the ocean of her soul, roaring or calming with her commands. The will of her psychic power spread like a spiderweb, and Morgan arrogantly perched herself in the very center of her mind, managing the small kingdom she had laid out with thought and control.
On the intricate threads of the spiderweb, some of the most minuscule specks of light glittered. These were the places where Morgan occasionally allowed her gaze to linger: Hector, Luther, or perhaps Zahariel.
These figures, to Morgan, were like newly planted seeds. Their potential roles in the future made them worthy of her investment or a little help.
For instance, when Hector emerged from the Dark Angels' surgery chamber, he would be surprised to find that while he no longer remembered the events of the Sarbis system, the fragments of recognizing and traveling with the Mother of Genes remained clear in his mind.
Near these faint points of light were even brighter and more dazzling individuals, targets more worthy of her serious attention: Magnus, Perturabo, and Ahriman. They either possessed power that commanded her constant awe, or they temporarily held more significant positions in her plans.
Thinking of this, Morgan's gaze swept over her only piece of luggage—a plant cultivation chamber made of glass. Emerald green sprouts could already be seen gradually breaking through the protective soil under the psychic acceleration, breathing the similarly confined air.
Morgan's thoughts lingered on this new life for a short while, then returned to her spiderweb. The first thing that caught her eye was an individual even more brilliant than the specks of Ahriman and the others: it was almost unique, nestled at the very core of the spiderweb, mere inches from Morgan herself, awaiting her inspection at any moment.
This was currently the most important individual, and even though Morgan didn't always check it, this couldn't obscure its inherent importance.
After all, it was Morgan [herself].
The silver-haired lady chuckled softly. She extended a corner of her consciousness and touched this brightest presence.
The speck of light wavered, then, after a while, it gradually grew larger, taking on a rough outline. A head and limbs sprouted, becoming indistinguishable from a normal human.
Only then did the light covering this individual gradually fade, revealing its true form: long, jet-black hair adorned with golden trinkets, cascaded over a shaggy cloak, obscuring sharp, pointed ears and a pair of equally cunning golden pupils.
Her figure was voluptuous, draped in a black and gold queen's gown that accentuated her arrogance. Her fingers were protected by pure gold claws, adorned with dark green poison and the purplish blood of her victims.
This was a queen, a queen who appeared even more extravagant and extraordinary than Morgan herself. She sat on her throne, naturally squandering all her subjects' resources to satisfy her desires.
Morgan laughed. She leaned back in her chair, crossed her legs, and supported her upper body with one arm, observing the queen before her who sat in the same posture.
[How have you been, Semiramis?]
"Everything is going smoothly, just as you planned."
She, or rather Queen Semiramis, spoke. Her voice, compared to Morgan's, carried an even more irresistible arrogance and autocracy.
[Ah, I should have known, they're even dumber than I imagined... Have the Dark Angels been here?]
"They left two Terran standard months ago. As you instructed, I allowed them to discover the part of the secret they were meant to know. Indeed, as you said, when they caught wind of something, they couldn't wait to dig for answers."
[After all, secrets are the soul of the Dark Angels.]
[These mere glimpses of information are enough to make my brothers realize something is amiss, but such minor discrepancies are not worth his trouble. After all, compared to intelligence, he definitely trusts his own eyes more.]
[And when he uses his own eyes to confirm certain things, that intelligence will, in turn, become a wedge to initiate the next step of the operation.]
"...Have you never considered the possibility of failure?"
[Of course I have. I constantly consider the outcomes and trajectories of failure, but what of it?]
[Even in the worst-case scenario, it would just be my brother seeing through my identity, dragging my bruised self before my father, and letting him decide my fate.]
[After all, without orders, none of my brothers would privately execute a Primarch, at least not yet, they wouldn't dare.]
[And my father, at a time like this, wouldn't easily kill a Primarch, even me, who has been deemed a failure.]
[After all, to my father, I currently pose no fundamental threat to his plans, nor have I been completely drained of my last value. Coupled with the constant scrutiny of those guys, he also has no real confidence in manipulating my thoughts anymore.]
[So, what's the worst that could happen?]
[I return to the Imperium in a disgraced state, then I'm assigned to my own legion, fighting and striving for his cause, and then I wait for that moment.]
[The moment that will challenge my father.]
[Or perhaps I'll be placed under house arrest by my father. He's unlikely to do that, as such a course of action would be too wasteful and would divert his attention.]
[You see, even the worst situation isn't much worse than this. I've seen things a thousand times worse than this when I first gained self-awareness. In fact, I could even say I've seen some of the worst scenes in the galaxy.]
[As long as you're at the bottom, even the greatest setback can be considered a success.]
[Or perhaps... you have a better suggestion?]
Morgan's gaze, accompanied by a low chuckle, landed on Semiramis's face. The latter merely mimicked Morgan, crossing her legs and tilting her head.
"Don't treat me as a strategist, Morgan. I don't have that ability or wisdom. I am merely a wisp of your soul, operating according to the instructions you left behind. My only extra function is to serve as your mirror, for you to pour out your heart."
[Yes...]
Morgan gently snapped her fingers, and Semiramis's face transformed into another appearance. She blew another breath, and everything returned to the beginning.
[After all, you are me.]
[Just a wisp of thought-soul I left behind to control that world. Although I have been constantly strengthening your power, your essence is unchangeable.]
As Morgan sighed, Semiramis dissolved into a wisp of dancing fragments, merging into her thoughts. Then, she waved her hand, and the queen in pure black reappeared, as graceful and noble as ever.
[I sense a feeling of powerlessness in your thoughts. Perhaps you need a helper?]
"Sometimes it does get a bit tiring. Those mortals simply can't keep up with my thoughts. While I don't worry about them having any overambitious ideas, many of our plans and changes are consequently slow to progress."
Morgan extended her hand and peeled a thin wisp from her sea of thoughts, kneading it into a ball of light that slowly grew a cocoon around it.
[It will still take some time before she can be born. Perhaps I should think of a name for her. Zenobia? Or Cleopatra?]
"Those are irrelevant. Perhaps you should be concerned about more important things—what's happening to you. Perhaps you need a new mirror. After all, I cannot always traverse the star-sea to listen to your words at any time. Such consumption and actions are far too great and would alert top-tier psykers."
[You're right about that point.]
"It's not me; it's you. This is the message you left before heading to the Randan front. I'm just responsible for saying it at this point in time, and there's an even more important line coming."
"You haven't forgotten your goal, have you?"
Morgan didn't answer again. She simply took another deep breath, once more drawing Semiramis back into her soul, peeling away the aspect of her that served as a mirror. The next second, a new ball of light formed in her hand.
When Semiramis reappeared, she felt a pleasant lightness.
"What do you plan to call this new mirror?"
[Atalante, how about it?]
I haven't forgotten my goal.
I have never forgotten.
[Lion] was never my target. He is too cautious, powerful, and rational. Confronting him would devolve into an unpredictable and uncontrollable disaster. His soul is bitter and unpalatable, and to my current self, it is a meaningless poison.
He is not Magnus, nor Perturabo. He is far stronger than these flawed individuals.
He cannot be prey; he can only be approached, but is very difficult to delude.
But he can be a [stepping stone].
My premonitions, my instincts, and those fragmented glimpses all tell me that a Primarch will completely depart from the stage of the Great Crusade.
His soul and everything will become a grand feast, a truly gluttonous banquet. Magnus's soul fragments cannot compare; they are utterly insignificant.
He will [die].
And then become my meal.
And since he is a Primarch, his death sentence must contain the Emperor's will.
Then, in this Imperium, who would the Emperor send to carry out the true [death sentence]?
[Lion] will become the cutlery.
My cutlery.
"Welcome to the Unyielding Truth."
Zahariel removed his helmet, revealing his usual cheerful face.
"Although I may have said it before, allow me to repeat: you must be exceptional, Lady Morgan. Not all mortals are allowed or approved to set foot on this warship steeped in glorious history."
"Apart from the Emperor's flagship, the Unyielding Truth is the most powerful force in the galaxy."
Zahariel's voice was filled with cheer, but his cheerfulness ended there. As soon as they left the deck and entered the warship's corridors, a Dark Angel appeared from the shadows.
This son of Johnson wore an ancient Mark II power armor, with the livery symbolizing the Terran Unification Wars prominently displayed on his shoulder pads.
The rest of his shoulder pads were densely covered with medals, ribbons, and honorific markings symbolizing victory, so numerous that the large shoulder pads of his power armor couldn't hold them all.
He didn't speak, merely stepped forward, standing before Zahariel, blocking his path.
The cheerful Calibanite paused, then showed a somewhat helpless expression. He bid Morgan farewell and turned to leave.
Then, the veteran's gaze shifted to Morgan. He still said nothing, merely looked at her, then pushed open a door and entered another corridor.
Morgan followed. They continuously changed routes in the brightly lit passages. Occasionally, voices filtered through the walls. The silver-haired lady's ears could catch the words of mortal crew members talking casually in the open corridors.
The silent trek of the two quiet individuals lasted for about half a Terran standard hour, until Morgan, following the silent guide, turned another corner, and her vision suddenly opened up.
It was an arena, a place far too spacious for two gladiators. It had pure black drapes and an dark green floor. At the very edge were weapon racks, holding weapons that might be taller than Morgan's current form. She could see greatswords, spears, and shields. And among these weapons, there were some objects that made her uncomfortable.
But none of this was the point.
Before the giant [statue] standing in the center of the arena, none of this was the point.
The Dark Angel's figure had once again disappeared into the shadows. After a brief pause, Morgan slowly walked into the arena.
And the moment she formally stepped in.
The [statue] came to life.
As if awakening from an ancient slumber, it slowly lifted its head and began to breathe. The temperature also seemed to grow colder.
Morgan simply watched him.
She watched that excessively large shadow, she watched the chilling greatsword in his hand, she watched his pure black armor and cloak. She knew that what was encased in metal was something more terrifying than metal itself.
And just as she was briefly thinking, one of the [statue's] hands raised his greatsword, planting it by his side. He spoke, his voice like cold, muffled thunder.
Morgan looked up. She waited for the words, waited for the words of her brother—Lion.
[Attack me.]
He said.
[With everything you have.]
Morgan didn't speak, nor did she reply. She merely raised her staff, and a storm capable of killing any Astartes swept through the space.
And Lion, in silence, drew his greatsword. The mere force of the air it displaced was enough to sever the throat of a Space Marine.
At this moment, the scene on Randan's combat moon had completely become a shattered reflection in the endless years.
And this silent struggle before them was the true first encounter between this pair of equally deadly, equally ruthless, equally terrifying, almost mirrored blood siblings.
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