"I'll take the shortcut."
Caelan's words fell like a meteor, shattering the still-forming worldview of the young Primarch.
Angron lay silently in Caelan's arms, realizing that Caelan was not quite what he had imagined.
He still saw Caelan as his father, even though Caelan forbade him from calling him that. Caelan's choices didn't lessen Angron's affection, instead, they sparked an inner struggle.
Caelan would choose the shortcut, but he would never choose for Angron.
"No matter what you decide, I'll support you."
Only now did Angron truly understand the meaning of those words.
They were separate beings walking different paths.
He had twenty brothers, but how many of them would, like him, reject shortcuts and choose the long way around?
'Most of them,' he thought, 'would choose the easy road.'
Few of the Primarchs possessed such rigid moral standards or demanded so much of themselves.
Angron's psychic gift worked like an emotional magnifying glass. It didn't distort what was there, it only made the existing colors blaze brighter.
Like the charismatic orators of M2-era Earth who could ignite nations with fiery speeches, Angron could stir hearts without needing words. His power directly kindled the dormant sparks of faith within others, turning them into roaring flames.
There was no such thing as good or evil in power, only in how it was used.
Caelan's warm hand ruffled his hair. "Don't overthink things. Like I said, whatever road you walk, I'll support you."
Angron looked up; Caelan was still talking, rambling like an overprotective parent.
"If you don't understand something, ask me. I'll answer. And if you still don't get it, keep asking until you do. Don't bottle it up, the more you brood, the easier it is to twist yourself in knots. You'll end up like Perturabo."
Angron blinked. "What's Perturabo like?"
Caelan grimaced. "Hard to describe… let's just say he's the definition of twisted. He'll spend days designing a perfect fortress using advanced math, then smash it to rubble himself with a siege hammer, just to carve into the ruins: See? This is what you made me do!"
"That is pretty twisted," Angron muttered. "I hope I never end up like that."
"I hope none of you do. I'd have a real headache if you did."
Angron asked quietly, "Have you figured out how to teach him yet?"
"Not yet," Caelan sighed. "Every Primarch I've raised so far has been like you, a good kid. I'm not saying Perturabo isn't good; his heart's in the right place. But maybe he shouldn't start moving just yet. The farther he goes, the harder it'll be to turn back."
Caelan rarely shared lessons about other Primarchs, mostly because no one else asked.
But he told Angron these stories for a reason: he wanted the brothers to grow close, to understand one another.
They were all children of the same father. Even if they clashed, they should sit down and talk.
In the true history, so many tragedies had been born of silence and misunderstanding, bloody farces that could've been avoided.
Like a child walking into a dark room where family waited with a birthday cake, and mistaking the shadows for an ambush. By the time the gunfire stopped, frosting and blood had mixed on the floor, and his parents' lifeless hands still clutched a "Happy Birthday" card.
In the Warhammer universe, surprise parties were a terrible idea. They always turned into massacres.
Caelan didn't want that among the Primarchs. That's why he emphasized communication, and practiced what he preached.
His results spoke for themselves.
Konrad Curze became a dark guardian, Lorgar a golden-tongued preacher, Russ… well, Caelan hadn't lived to see Russ return to the Imperium, but he had faith in him.
Besides, canon Russ wasn't bad, just a bit too fond of using fists instead of words.
"Have you figured things out?" Caelan asked.
"Yeah," Angron nodded. "I won't turn back."
"Mira," Caelan called softly.
"I-I'm here," the girl said, shrinking back a little.
"Have you figured things out?"
"I never really blamed them," she whispered. "Everyone in the village was kind… except the chief."
"If someone else had turned into a witch, I'd probably have been just as scared. Mom only sent me away to protect me. Big brother was kind too. They were all good people."
She lowered her head, cheeks red. "I guess I'm not as smart as Angron… maybe I only understood because I'm slow."
"Who says you're slow? To realize that takes real wisdom!"
"Hehe…" Mira's shy smile brightened.
Caelan's large hands rested on both their heads. To raise a Primarch properly, one needed the right teaching and the right environment.
The ideal conditions, the Emperor's original laboratory, had long since been destroyed in that fateful explosion.
The Primarchs, who were meant to grow together and sharpen one another, were now scattered like lonely stars across the galaxy.
So Caelan did what he could. If he couldn't give them a perfect world, he'd give them companions, peers to fill their empty childhoods.
Even a short childhood was better than none.
Curze had his Midnight Phantoms.
Lorgar had Erebus and the Circle of Ash.
Russ had his wolf brothers and Jorin Bloodhowl.
Angron had only Mira, but given the hellish world he'd landed on, even one friend was a blessing.
"Stop right there!"
A slaver captain barked the order, and his men closed in, surrounding Caelan, Angron, and Mira.
"What are you supposed to be?" the captain sneered, his cybernetic eye glinting as he scanned Caelan's indigo-threaded clothing.
When Caelan lived on Terra, he'd dressed like any factory worker, plain gray-white garb.
On Nostramo, Dorothy and Phili had designed and sewn his clothes by hand.
He'd worn that same outfit ever since, its fine stitching still intact, silver thread tracing constellations at the cuffs.
He never replaced it because it was his first handmade gift, the first clothing given to him by one of his sons. It meant too much.
That craftsmanship caught the slavers' attention.
"You're slavers, aren't you?" Caelan asked, his eyes flicking toward the rusted prison wagons behind them.
Blood-crusted bars, chains lined with barbs, hollow-eyed captives swaying like puppets.
The captain suddenly realized Caelan hadn't even looked at him, truly looked past him, as if he were less than nothing. The insult stung more than any lash.
Snap!
His whip cracked, spitting arcs of blue-violet lightning.
"I'm the one asking questions here!" he snarled. "By the City-State Border Act, Article 17, I have full authority to detain suspicious individuals for questioning!"
At first he'd worried Caelan might be connected, but if this man truly had powerful backers, why would he be wandering the wilds with two children and no guards?
'He must be a fallen noble.'
'Perfect for sale, and the kids too.'
Caelan sighed. He understood why this was happening. They stood out too much, a man and two children walking alone across the wilds.
In the slavers' eyes, they were walking treasure chests.
"How much would I fetch?" Caelan asked calmly.
The slaver blinked, then barked a dry laugh. "If a noble buys you, eight hundred Deshian gold coins. Not that it'll matter to you. Don't tell me you expect a cut?"
"Oh," Caelan said, nodding slightly.
The slaver nodded too, right before his head flew off in a clean arc.
For a heartbeat, twenty-three headless bodies stood like cut stalks of wheat, then geysers of blood painted the air crimson.
The slaves in the cages trembled, clutching the bars as the blood mist sparkled like fireworks.
Caelan flicked his wrist, and a handful of gold coins floated from the corpses' pockets, landing neatly in his palm.
He was getting better with psychic control, still not at the Emperor's level, but close.
"Do you want freedom?" Caelan asked, eyes sweeping the cages.
A scarred warrior lifted his head. "Are you… a sorcerer? Doesn't matter. Can you help me kill the High Knights?"
"If you're lucky," Caelan said, "you can take their heads yourself. What's your name?"
"Oenomaus," the man said, kneeling in the cage. "My lord."
The chains snapped like paper.
The freed slaves stared at their fallen shackles, trembling, not from fear, but awakening.
Angron could feel it, their rage, their despair, their yearning.
He hadn't given them rebellion; he'd merely fanned the embers already smoldering in their hearts.
They would rise, and he would lead them.
"That's Desh'ea," Oenomaus said, pointing ahead.
The city spread across the horizon, vast and sprawling like a slumbering beast of iron.
Not a vertical hive like Necromunda, but a fortress stretched wide across the plains.
And like all such places, its skyline bristled with spires that glinted like blades.
Nuceria was, like Macragge, a world of space Romans, one ruled by city-states and slavery.
The line into the city gates crawled like a dying serpent, peasants bent under the sun.
"You sure the guards won't stop us?" Caelan asked.
Oenomaus chuckled grimly. "Don't worry, my lord. I know these people. You won't even need to speak."
Desh'ea's two gates divided its world cleanly in half, one for nobles, gleaming with marble; one for peasants, choked with dust and filth.
"Out of the way! Make room for my master!"
Oenomaus shoved peasants aside as the crowd parted. The brands on the slaves' faces drew sneers, until they saw Caelan among them, and those sneers turned into bowed heads.
'He must be a noble,' they thought. 'Why else would slaves act so boldly?'
The guard captain hurried forward, greasy face splitting in a sycophantic grin. "My lord, I-"
"Get lost," Oenomaus growled, shoving him aside.
The captain's face twitched, until he met the slave's cold eyes, filled with killing intent.
He stepped back, cursing under his breath, seething with resentment.
'A noble with no carriage, no guards, just slaves for protection? What a joke.'
Still, he didn't dare stop them. Picking a fight with nobles, even fallen ones, was suicide.
Once inside the city, Mia whispered, "That actually worked?"
"Dogs obey the leash," Oenomaus snorted.
Caelan asked quietly, "What if he had checked our identities?"
"Do you have a noble's crest?"
"No."
"Then we'd have to run."
"You're not afraid of dying?"
"I am," Oenomaus said, smiling grimly, "but I'd rather take the risk than live to regret not trying."
"Where to next?" Angron asked.
Caelan pointed ahead. "The arena. Do you know the way?"
"There," Oenomaus said, pointing at a massive structure.
"My lord, do you have a plan?"
Caelan nodded. "Originally, I planned to stay in the countryside for a few months. But now, we'll remain here, in the city."
Oenomaus frowned. "Are we waiting for reinforcements?"
Caelan pointed at Angron. "In a few months, he'll grow up, and then he'll lead you to rise up and take this world."
Oenomaus froze. 'Waiting for a child to grow up? That's the plan?'
It sounded insane. But when Caelan looked at him, calm and utterly sure, Oenomaus felt something stir, a feeling that maybe, just maybe, this madness would set the world aflame.
And for the first time, he didn't doubt.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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