Caelan and the others had been inside the house for far too long.
Though communicating through mental link was faster than speech, it still took enough time for the people outside to notice something strange.
Because the temperature around the house suddenly dropped, in the middle of summer, frost was forming on the walls.
If there wasn't some injustice haunting the place, then there could be only one explanation: a psyker.
Everyone on Nuceria knew this, wherever psykers appeared, the air grew cold. The nobles made sure their cityfolk knew it well; it was the fastest way to identify a psyker and turn them in.
During the Age of Strife, psykers had brought chaos and devastation to countless worlds.
So any planet that still preserved the memory of the old era treated psykers as taboo.
The village chief was the usual petty tyrant, bullying the weak and preying on the helpless, but even he didn't dare lay hands on a psyker. The chief from the next village once tried to capture one for a noble's bounty, and the psyker had killed him, leaving nothing but a field of mangled limbs.
This chief wasn't going to gamble his life on whether the psyker before him would kill. Even if he caught one, he wouldn't live long enough to claim the reward.
So instead, he chose fire.
Fire, that's what witches feared most. If he could burn them to death, the problem would be solved!
He gathered a few men, stacked wood around the house, and lit it himself.
Killing a psyker still earned a reward, even if it wasn't as much as catching one alive, and every coin counted. So the chief insisted on lighting the fire himself; the glory had to be his.
When the red flames devoured the beams, turning the wooden house into a towering torch, a twisted grin spread across his face.
But a second later, an invisible force tore the roof clean off, the firestorm vanished instantly, snuffed out as though the air itself had died.
The chief's grin froze on his lips. When he saw the three figures standing inside the charred frame, terror twisted his face.
"Kill them! Kill the witches!" he screamed.
He tried to command his loyal men forward, but they were already gone.
The villagers, too, had no reason to risk their lives for him. If the chief died, so be it, they only hoped the witches wouldn't take revenge on the rest of them.
Mira's parents collapsed to the ground, staring blankly at their daughter.
They had thought the witches were the two strangers they'd taken in earlier. They had even begged the chief to save their girl first… only to discover their daughter was the witch.
Now what were they supposed to do?
"I… I think I messed up," Mira said, her small face trembling.
Caelan comforted her gently. "It's alright. A house can be rebuilt. Your parents can live in the chief's house now."
"Yeah!" she said, her voice breaking into a giggle through the tears, the innocent joy only a child could have.
"Don't let the chief run away," Angron reminded her.
Mira lifted a slender finger and made a small flicking motion at the retreating figure.
Snap!
The air tore like fabric. The fat, bloated body bent backward at an unnatural right angle, his spine cracking like dry wood mixed with the crystalline chime of falling ice. His mouth opened, but no scream came. He froze mid-run, twisted into a grotesque spiral of flesh and blood.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
Mira squeezed her eyes shut, too scared to look. She hadn't meant to kill him, she just wanted to stop him from running.
Even though Caelan had told her stories of Primarchs conquering worlds, she was still just a child. Killing someone with her own hands was too much.
Her psychic power was terrifying, if she'd been a boy, she could've rivaled the Chief Librarian one day. But she was a girl, and that meant her future as a psyker would always be limited.
That unrestrained, innocent power, paired with her childish naivety, made the sight even more chilling.
"Mira…" her mother whispered, trembling. Her husband gripped her arm, trying to hold her back, but maternal instinct was stronger.
"Mama… Papa… I'm sorry…" Mira cried, hot tears spilling down her cheeks. She hadn't wanted this, she really hadn't.
"Calm down," said Angron. His voice carried across the entire village, woven with psychic power. "We're not bad people."
His presence blanketed the settlement. His words entered every villager's mind directly.
Hands holding scythes and hammers fell slack. Open mouths closed. Even the barking dogs lay down, and the sparrows beneath the eaves tucked their heads under their wings. The whole village fell silent, deep and still as the sea.
The people forgot fear, just as they forgot the nightmares that haunted them at night.
Even though the strangers had killed the chief, even though they wielded inhuman power, the villagers now believed Angron was not evil.
They understood Mira. A child had simply lost control and killed someone, like accidentally stepping on an ant.
That didn't make her cruel. It just meant the chief had been fragile.
How could he die so carelessly? Didn't he know what trauma that would cause the poor child?
And besides, the chief had been a cruel bully, his death was justice!
You did good, girl. You did good.
Angron, however, looked troubled. "Did I do something wrong?"
Caelan crouched beside him. "Someone once said, 'Law itself isn't good or evil, it depends on how it's used.' Do you think that's true?"
"I… I think so?" Angron said uncertainly.
"The point isn't whether it's true," Caelan said. "It's who gets to decide what's good or evil."
"If someone claims to fight for justice but slaughters innocents, is that justice?"
"And if someone calls himself evil, yet kills only the wicked and makes the world better, is that truly evil?"
Angron frowned, confused. He was still so young, these questions were too deep for him.
"Don't rush to answer," Caelan said. "What matters is that you think. You're not an extension of my will, you're your own person."
"I know you'll feel guilt and confusion," Caelan continued. "That's because you're good. I won't tell you to use your power, or to avoid it. Only you can decide how."
"I know you're a good boy. That's why I'm not afraid you'll misuse it. Whatever you choose, I'll support you."
Angron looked up. "Just like you support my brothers?"
"Yes. You're all good children, walking different paths toward the same goal: to make humanity better."
"I don't know which path is right," Angron said softly, "but I know every road is full of thorns."
"Even if we stray," Caelan replied, "I believe we can always find our way back."
"Will you walk with me?"
"I will."
"But you'll also walk with my brothers?"
"Yes."
"Then how can you walk different paths?"
"You open the roads. I just follow behind, watching what you choose. That's not so hard, is it?"
Angron nodded awkwardly. He half understood.
'Human crowds,' Caelan thought, 'were always the same, ignorant yet capable of greatness. A mob could commit murder or arson, but also self-sacrifice and justice. It all depended on their leader.'
Angron was born to lead. His power could guide or enslave, and he hated the latter.'
He would choose to guide.
He would awaken the people, not chain them.
But what if one day he became a tyrant? Who would stop him then?
Even a good ruler, if he had absolute power, would never be questioned. If he fell, no one could stop the fall.
That's why Angron needed an anchor, someone to remind him what justice was.
He had already chosen that person. His father.
"Then," Angron said, "I'll guide them, and you'll guide me."
"I can't choose for you," Caelan said.
"But that's my choice," Angron replied, tilting his head innocently. "Isn't it allowed?"
Those words made Caelan flinch. PTSD triggered. "Even Lorgar would be ashamed if he heard that," he muttered.
Then, seriously: "Angron, you must remember, you are no one's slave. You are your own master."
"Are you my father?"
"No."
"Then I'm not your slave either. But I still need someone to guide me, just like you guide them."
He added after a pause, "I'm only one year old."
Well, one day and one night, technically.
But that was how Primarchs were, born precocious, killing Eldar before they could even walk.
"I'll teach you," Caelan said, "but not forever. You'll have to learn to grow on your own."
"And if I can't?"
"I'll teach you until you can."
He instantly regretted saying that. 'Great, another flag raised.'
'Still, how hard could teaching a Primarch be? I already raised three of them. Surely Angron wouldn't be worse.'
It would normally take years of propaganda to make peasants understand justice and revolution.
Angron needed only a minute.
He could make them feel why rebellion mattered, inspire them to die for it if needed. He could forge a massive uprising overnight, or make enemy armies switch sides on the spot.
Angron was a natural leader. Under any conditions, uniting a world would be easier for him than for his brothers.
But in the real timeline, he had landed on Nuceria, and they had nailed the Butcher's Nails into his skull, taking that gift away.
Now, nothing could limit him. Nothing could stop him, except himself.
"I don't like this," Angron said softly, looking at the frightened villagers. "This isn't guidance. It's slavery."
He could force them to obey, but his morality wouldn't allow it.
"I'll lead them," he said, "but not this way."
"You can teach them," Caelan replied. "Help them understand why they should fight, let them awaken by themselves."
"But I'm still a child," Angron said sadly. "I don't even know my own path yet. If I lead them now, isn't that just another kind of enslavement?"
He could feel all their fear, fear of psykers, fear of nobles, fear of death. He could calm them, but once he lifted his influence, the fear returned.
Caelan understood. "Then let's go. To the city-states."
He would follow Angron anywhere.
Angron's psychic power worked like emotional alchemy, transforming fear into blades, rage into fire, hope into a spark that could ignite the world.
If he looked at a crowd, their faint doubts and longings would flare into revolution under his gaze.
Most people, even Primarchs, wouldn't resist such power.
If Curze had this gift, he'd have used it without hesitation, calling it a shortcut to justice.
But not Angron. His empathy wouldn't allow it.
Unless the people already burned with passion, he wouldn't push them further.
He could make a girl like Caelan even more, but not make her love him if she didn't.
Then Mira's mother knelt before Caelan, crying. "Please, take her away!"
The villagers feared psykers too deeply. Even if they kept silent now, one day their fear would turn into hatred.
Leaving was the only way.
"Mira," Caelan asked gently, "do you want to come with us?"
She looked up at her mother, saw sorrow and fear she couldn't understand, and nodded.
"Take me with you, big brother."
Her lashes lowered, hiding the confusion in her eyes. A tear fell, darkening the dirt.
Caelan's gaze swept across the villagers, their hunched shoulders, their averted eyes. The fear in them made Angron's heart ache.
People feared them not because they were powerful, but because they weren't powerful enough.
If they became Nuceria's rulers, that fear would turn to reverence.
"Don't worry," Caelan said, "we won't be back. But maybe she will."
He took the two children and left the village.
The villagers only exhaled once the trio vanished over the horizon.
"I'm sorry," Angron murmured.
"For what?" Caelan asked.
"For making things complicated," he said. "Should I have taken the easy way instead?"
"Simple doesn't mean right," Caelan said. "And difficult doesn't mean wrong. Thrones built on shortcuts are always made of bones."
Angron frowned. "Then what about the long road?"
"Maybe it's harder," Caelan said. "Maybe it's more beautiful. But whichever you take, never regret it. Follow your heart."
"And you? What would you choose?"
Caelan smiled faintly. "The shortcut."
Angron blinked.
"Honestly," Caelan said, "I've always wanted to be Homelander, not Superman."
And deep down, he thought, 'Curze was always the one most like me.'
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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