The outline of Asaheim stood frozen on the horizon like an ancient sculpture of ice. Fresh snowflakes fell like fragments of diamonds, each reflecting a shard of crystal brilliance beneath the polar sun.
In the silence, the vast tundra spread out a pure white veil to cover every untold story beneath it.
When night descended, the great feast of the Russ tribe began on time around the roaring bonfire.
Warriors burst into the royal tent, still dusted with shards of ice. The white mist of their breath carried the scent of the day's hunt. Bloodstained axes clashed against mead-filled horn cups, creating a rhythm that every son of Fenris knew by heart.
Russ sat on his oak throne, one hand clutching a roasted bear leg, the other holding a jug of burning liquor.
His wolf brothers flanked him on either side. They didn't even bother to sniff at the honeyed mead, their fangs tore straight into the roasted meat, savoring the hot burst of grease that filled their maws.
Using a dagger, Caelan sliced off a piece of bear belly. Sylvia immediately caught it with her damp nose, her silvery-gray tail swishing with joy.
"Bit tired today, Sylvia. Let's turn in early."
After eating their fill, Caelan yawned, patted the wolf's soft fur, and together they stepped out of the warm tent into the howling blizzard.
"Thunk, thunk, thunk!"
Russ tilted his head back and downed his drink, not bothering to see off his parents.
The warriors of Russ would drink until dawn, but Caelan never touched alcohol; he could never enjoy such noise.
They always left midway through the feast, and Russ had grown used to it.
Unlike some of his brothers, Russ wasn't selfish; he was willing to leave a bit of peace for his parents.
"Hah…"
Caelan yawned into the icy air; the mist of his breath shattered instantly in the wind. The mother wolf's fluffy tail wrapped around him, shielding him from the cold.
Behind him, the sounds of the feast faded, distant and muffled, as though separated by an entire ice age.
A ragged wanderer passed by, wrapped in a tattered cloak. The shadowed eyes beneath the hood paused briefly on Sylvia's silver fur, then turned toward Caelan with an unreadable nod.
But to Caelan, the wanderer's figure was but a wavering mirage; he was too tired, his eyelids heavy as lead.
If Sylvia hadn't coiled her tail around his waist, he would have collapsed into the snow.
Thud! Caelan fell against Sylvia's side, cushioned by her warm fur. The wanderer caught him, pushed him gently onto the wolf's back.
"Woof…" Sylvia let out a short, soft growl of thanks.
The wanderer's lips curved faintly. Tightening his cloak, he walked past them, his footsteps crunching on the snow so lightly they seemed to float.
By the time his figure melted into the storm toward the king's tent, the tracks he left behind were already covered by new snow, as though he'd never existed.
The warriors stiffened at the intruder's arrival, but he ignored their alarm and strode toward the throne.
The wolves rose, their three-meter forms casting enormous shadows that swallowed the wanderer whole. But instead of growling, the beasts merely tensed, forming a wall of fur and muscle before the throne.
"Quiet."
The wanderer's hand pressed lightly downward, and the wolves all sank to the ground in unison.
The tent fell silent. Even the fire stopped crackling.
The wanderer walked forward, unhurried, until he stood face-to-face with the Wolf King. Their gazes collided in the frozen air.
"Greetings, Leman Russ," the wanderer said, his voice cold as wind and snow. "May I join this grand feast?"
Russ grinned, but his tone was anything but polite. "You're not welcome here."
"Then let's have a contest, you pick the terms. If I win, I'll take that seat and join the feast." He pointed to the right side of the throne.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
The warriors beat their axes against their shields, mocking his arrogance in the crudest Fenrisian slang, but the wanderer didn't so much as twitch.
"And if you lose?" Russ narrowed his eyes to slits.
"No matter the outcome," the wanderer replied.
He was clearly confident. But Russ's eyes gleamed with cunning. "Your words, not mine."
Before the wanderer could respond, Russ offered him a horn cup. "Have a drink?"
The wanderer raised it, covering his face with his sleeve as he took a sip.
"Well?" Russ asked.
"I have better wine," the wanderer said mildly. "You should try it someday."
His words were tactful, but still made the warriors flush with anger.
Russ suddenly burst out laughing. "Of course you do! The whole galaxy's your wine cellar. What's Fenris compared to that?"
"You know who I am, then?"
Russ laughed louder. "Greetings, Master of Mankind."
"And greetings… my son."
The cloak slid from his shoulders like melting snow. In an instant, the tent blazed with golden light. The Master of Mankind stood revealed, taller than the Wolf King, radiant in armor etched with living runes. Every axe in the hall seemed dull beside him.
"Shall we begin our contest now?" asked the Emperor.
"No," Russ smiled faintly, neither submissive nor defiant. "Let's save it for the day I can actually beat you."
"You lack confidence."
"Confidence won't help me defeat you."
"Why limit the contest to combat, then?"
"What else? Eating? Drinking?" Russ snorted. "Even if I won, you'd never admit it."
"Do you think I'd lose my temper and knock you out cold?"
Russ smirked. "Wouldn't be the first time, would it?"
Even if Russ could outdrink or outfeast him, he knew such a victory would be hollow, childish even.
Russ sought a victory that mattered, one the Master of Mankind himself would acknowledge.
But that day had not yet come.
"So, you're alone?" Russ asked. "Where are my brothers? My Legion?"
"Your brothers, like you, cling to their worlds," said Neoth, the Emperor's other name. "They hesitate to take to the stars. As for your Legion, that depends on your choice. Tell me, Russ, what future do you desire?"
"I swear fealty, so long as you remain Emperor of Mankind." Russ knelt.
The warriors exchanged confused looks and slipped quietly out of the tent.
They didn't understand the bond between the Wolf King and this stranger, only that Russ had called him the Master of Mankind, and the stranger had called Russ son.
But wasn't Russ's father Caelan?
"I foresaw this meeting in countless futures," Neoth murmured, "but never imagined it would be… this peaceful."
"Left an impression?" Russ asked.
"Deeper than any of your brothers."
"How many of them have you met?"
"As of now, three. In the future, all."
"Then watch your future carefully, Lord of Mankind. You might lose sight of the road beneath your feet."
"Why won't you call me father?"
"Do my brothers?"
"Some."
Russ raised a brow. "Who'd be that stupid? You're not just saying that to look good, are you?"
For once, Neoth couldn't read his son. No hostility, no warmth, only a strange, unsettling calm.
'What in Terra's name had Caelan taught this child?'
"Where is Caelan?" Russ asked.
"He's gone."
"Oh," Russ grunted nonchalantly, but his hurried steps as he left betrayed him.
The wolves whined and followed.
Neoth smiled faintly. 'Still the same Russ.'
He followed them out. The warriors outside turned as the golden giant stepped through the tent flap and bowed their heads instinctively, not in fear, but in something deeper, written into their very genes.
"Caelan!"
Russ lifted the tent flap. Sylvia's silver coat shimmered in the firelight, curled in a perfect circle as she slept. Her breathing rose and fell gently, like waves of warmth.
Her ears twitched. She looked up, questioning him.
She nudged her belly, where someone had once lain, but felt only her own fur and cold emptiness.
'He'd been there. Why wasn't he anymore?'
A soft whine caught in her throat. Her mate was gone.
"It's alright, Mother," Russ said softly, his voice like melting snow. "He's only gone for now. One day, we'll meet again among the stars."
"Woo…"
"He didn't abandon us. I'll find him, I promise. And when I do, we'll never be apart again."
The wolves gathered close, their wet noses pressing gently against Sylvia's back in ancient comfort.
Russ turned, and the wanderer was standing there.
No golden armor now, no divine light, only a weary traveler in a ragged cloak.
"You called her 'Mother,'" he said, sounding genuinely surprised, even more so than when Russ had called Caelan 'Father.'
Russ frowned, his eyes cold. "She raised me. Like the Roman she-wolf raised Romulus. Why shouldn't I call her Mother?"
His gaze cut like ice, locking onto the Emperor's, searching for the slightest hint of judgment.
"I think you misunderstand me," Neoth said quietly. "I'm not a narrow-minded human supremacist."
Russ chuckled bitterly. "Really? You're not?"
"I said I'm not narrow-minded."
Russ snorted.
"I see how you care for her," Neoth continued. "She etched wildness into your very blood. For that, I thank her."
He placed his hand gently above Sylvia's head. A thread of golden light drifted down like a baby wolf's milk tooth, resting on her softest fur.
"My gift of gratitude."
"When did he leave?" Russ asked.
"I don't know."
"Even you don't know?"
"Do you take me for a god?"
"You're not a god, but you're the closest thing to one."
"You're right," Neoth admitted, "but I still can't give you that answer."
"I don't believe you, you must know something."
"He told you many stories," Neoth said. "Let me tell you one in return. Will you listen?"
"I'm listening."
"In ancient Terra, there was a faith called Hinduism," Neoth began. "It spoke of three gods: Brahma, the creator, Vishnu, the preserver, and Shiva, the destroyer. There's a tale that all of existence is merely Brahma's dream. When he awakens, this world ends, replaced by another."
"You think he's Brahma?"
"No," said Neoth. "It's just a story. You're meant to learn from it, not believe it."
Russ's eyes narrowed, his lips curving. "You're imitating him."
"Not imitation."
"Then why tell me this?"
"What did he teach you about how to live among others?"
"Honesty."
"Exactly," said Neoth. "Then be honest with me, too."
"That depends," Russ said calmly. "If you're truly still Emperor of Mankind, I'll stay loyal. If you're honest with me, I'll be honest with you. But I doubt you'll ever tell me everything."
"How did he describe me?" Neoth asked.
Russ stared into the fire, memories flooding back.
"He told me many things about you, far more than about my brothers. He always said I should understand your intentions, that even when you're wrong, your heart's in the right place. But his judgment of you was… 'A wise fool, a farsighted blind man, a silver-tongued mute, a brave idiot, a heroic idiot, really.'"
Neos was struck silent, his eyes flickering beneath the hood. "You call that one sentence?"
There was a trace of helpless amusement in his voice. So Caelan had gone easy on him back on Terra, probably out of respect.
Russ laughed heartily. "Don't you think it fits you perfectly?"
"You only met me today," Neoth said. "How could you judge me already?"
"You're right, time will tell. But that doesn't make his words wrong."
"Your view is too narrow."
"Maybe. But he said one more thing."
Neoth waited.
"A tragic hero."
The Emperor's voice was calm as the night itself. "Then I'll prove him wrong."
"Prove you're not a hero?"
"Prove our story won't end in tragedy."
"On that, we agree," Russ said. "I hate tragedies. So I'll help you."
"For me?"
"For him."
"I'm sorry."
"You don't sound like it."
"I'm relieved," Neoth said. "Compared to humanity's future, my personal feelings don't matter."
Russ's tone sharpened. "Even if the whole world turns against you?"
"Why would it?"
"It's a metaphor, don't take it so literally."
Neoth's voice was soft, yet carried an impossible pride.
"Even if I stood alone, against all mankind, he would still stand with me."
"Why?" Russ's voice chilled.
"Because I am the Emperor. The Master of Mankind. Neoth."
Silence.
Caelan's body sank deeper into dark waters, as though falling into an endless abyss.
No light. No sound. The void itself seemed to hold its breath.
"Father… why haven't you come for me?"
The faint cry of a child slipped through the cracks of the abyss, like a cub abandoned in a blizzard, licking its wounds alone.
"There are four now. When will it be my turn?"
"It's three!" Caelan snapped back.
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am."
He remembered each Primarch he'd found: Curze, Lorgar, Russ. Three, not four.
"You're Magnus, aren't you?"
"You're mistaken," the child said flatly.
"Father… when will you come for me?"
"How should I know? I don't control the order."
"Then who does?"
Caelan froze. 'Yeah… who decides?'
'The Emperor? No. The Emperor wasn't that kind of god.'
'Could it be… the Chaos Gods? Impossible.'
"It can't be me, right?" Caelan muttered.
But if he decided the order… why had the first one been Curze?
Of all the Primarchs, Curze was neither the most special nor the most agreeable.
"Ah-choo!"
Caelan sneezed violently, shivering in the cold. His pupils contracted, and a pale blue psychic glow shimmered over his skin, warding off the chill.
It was dark, night again.
"So… where the hell am I this time?"
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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