Though Chogoris was famed for its beautiful scenery, the nomadic tribes of the grasslands were forced to migrate constantly, seeking different settlements in summer and winter to adapt to the seasonal shifts.
A year on Chogoris was only three-quarters of a Terran year. Thus, though Jaghatai Khan was four years old by local reckoning, he was only three in Terran terms.
It was in this year that Jaghatai Khan resolved to conquer the world.
"Outlander," Jaghatai suddenly asked, "how many years did my brothers take to unify their homeworlds?"
Caelan replied: "By standard Terran years, three to five. The fastest was Angron, he did it in half a year."
Jaghatai's brows furrowed sharply. "Half a year? How did he manage that?"
He did not doubt the outlander's words. His certainty came from Caelan's long-standing honesty. The truths Caelan spoke had never been tainted by falsehood.
That accumulated sincerity had built a fortress of trust in Jaghatai's heart.
"His Legion happened to discover his homeworld, Nuceria. By the time he conquered his first city, his Legion had already surrounded the planet.
"When I left, Nuceria was not yet fully unified. But a Legion can conquer a world in a week, sometimes even a single day, depending on the local level of technology."
Jaghatai asked: "And if it were Chogoris?"
"If a full Legion came, one day."
Small fleets often lacked manpower, forcing them to slow their pace. But a Legion, with overwhelming strength, could conquer in the blink of an eye.
Chogoris was still in a feudal age, with no means to resist Astartes. The storm-seers might cause some trouble, but in the end, a few bolter rounds would settle it.
Jaghatai crushed his cup. Mortals could not imagine what lay beyond their understanding.
He was clever, already a Khan at three, already beginning his conquest.
Caelan had told him many tales of the Imperium, but his grasp of its true scale was still vague. That the Imperium could conquer Chogoris in a single day was beyond his comprehension.
Was his world truly so weak?
Caelan said: "You need not compare yourself to a Legion. Besides, you too will have a Legion."
Perspective shapes understanding. Just as those on the ground cannot fathom why those in the clouds see boulders as mere grains of sand.
Jaghatai's shock came because he had not yet returned.
"My Legion?" His lips curled in a mocking smile. "They could conquer my world in a day. To them, I am but a barbarian. Would they let such a barbarian lead them?"
"You are a Primarch, their genetic father. They will gladly follow you. Legions without Primarchs are always lesser in the Imperium.
"Do not belittle yourself. Chogoris limits your vision. The Imperium will place you upon the galactic stage. Only there will your gifts truly shine."
Caelan's words eased him. Jaghatai's expression softened slightly, though his smile remained cold. "But first I must conquer my world. At what age did my brothers begin their conquests?"
Even Primarchs could not escape comparison. It was human nature.
The weak belittle others to mask their own failings. The strong surpass themselves, climbing ever higher.
Primarchs were the latter.
They did not compare themselves to mortals, mortals could never match them. But brothers of the same blood were the finest whetstones.
Though all shared superhuman bodies, someone would always stand above the rest. Each Primarch longed to prove himself the greatest among them.
Caelan paused thoughtfully. "Most began as infants."
Jaghatai's sharp gaze pierced him. 'What did that mean, infants?'
"When I found them, most were still swaddled babies."
"Most? So there were exceptions?"
"Even then, only a few months' difference."
"You mean to tell me my brothers went from cradle to conquering worlds in three to five years? And one did it in half a year?"
"Yes."
Jaghatai's face turned cold as the winter steppe.
At six months, his brother had already conquered a world. At six months, he was still drinking mare's milk. Even if Angron was an exception, the others took only three years. Yet at three, Jaghatai had only just avenge his foster father and destroyed the Haelun tribe.
He refused to admit his brothers were stronger. The only reason they were faster was Caelan's guidance.
Had Caelan come to him earlier, he was certain he would not be inferior.
Even now, he would not be lesser.
His voice was like a blizzard sweeping the plains: "Four summers at most. I will conquer Chogoris!"
Caelan said: "Little Mo's situation is similar. He is your age. And in three years at most, he will unify Barbarus."
"Mortarion."
Jaghatai whispered his brother's name. He knew Caelan traveled between them, teaching both. That must be a burden.
Barbarus was harsher than Chogoris. Mortarion's foes were stronger. If Mortarion could unify Barbarus in three years, then Jaghatai must do it faster.
Not to prove greatness, but to prove he was no less than any brother.
What they could do, he would do better. What they could conquer, he would crush utterly.
Especially Mortarion.
Jaghatai narrowed his eyes. Mortarion had once sent him a message through Caelan, words he remembered clearly: "Forgive me, brother, but I do not regret."
Flames shadowed Jaghatai's sharp features.
He did not understand why his brother apologized. Perhaps Caelan knew, but he would not ask.
He did not know this blood brother who felt like a stranger. Yet when Caelan spoke of Mortarion, his eyes gleamed brightly, like a herdsman boasting of a stallion he had tamed.
Jaghatai sensed it keenly. Though Caelan never said it aloud, his favoritism was obvious.
Rather than the skies and steppes of Chogoris, Caelan preferred the poisonous fog of Barbarus, to dwell with Mortarion.
That subtle difference was like an ice needle piercing Jaghatai's pride.
In the end, he reached a bitter conclusion: in Caelan's eyes, the brother from Barbarus was more worthy of patient teaching.
Perhaps that was why Mortarion apologized?
His brother believed he had stolen Caelan's favor. Every moment Caelan spent with him was time taken from Jaghatai.
"Childish." Jaghatai sneered.
His brother was pathetically childish. Did he see Caelan as a father?
Jaghatai could understand his brothers' admiration. Caelan had nurtured them from infancy with wisdom and patience. If not a father, what else could he be?
But Mortarion was different.
When Caelan met him on Barbarus, Mortarion was already three, a grown warrior. Yet he bowed instantly, calling Caelan father, like a child seeking shelter.
Weak and childish. An adult's body with a child's heart. He had never truly grown.
Jaghatai pitied him. He could imagine the torment Mortarion suffered under his foster father.
He understood why his brother clung to Caelan as a father.
Those who had never felt the sun's warmth could not resist a light shining into their abyss.
But Caelan asked for nothing. His sincerity was frightening. Either he was a saint, or he had greater ambitions.
It was the latter. He never hid his goal: the revival of mankind.
He placed the fate of the species upon the shoulders of the Primarchs. That obsessive faith was a crown so heavy even carefree Jaghatai felt crushed.
Mortarion's apology thus made sense.
His brother was locked in a silent contest with him, vying for Caelan's attention. Like children competing for a father's favor. And when one gained the upper hand, his apology was a subtle boast.
Childish indeed.
Jaghatai respected Caelan as a mentor. The outlander's sincerity had earned his trust. But his respect was rational.
Caelan's wisdom was precious, but to Jaghatai he was a partner, not a father.
He never sought Caelan's favor. They were Primarchs. They should stand together against the ignorance of Old Night, not drown in father-son games.
If Mortarion craved Caelan's affection, let him have it.
Jaghatai only sought Caelan's knowledge. He never saw him as a father. His true father was dead.
Jaghatai finally said, "Help me send a message to my brother."
…...
"True resilience is silent as gold. Only the hollow speak without end."
Mortarion laughed. 'Was this a taunt? Or a criticism from a brother?'
His brother grew upon Chogoris's grasslands and skies; his own resilience was forged in poison and oppression of Barbarus.
Mortarion believed his brother would be as resilient as he was, because they shared the same father. He had never once rebuked his brother.
But now Jaghatai Khan was rebuking him. Did his brother truly understand resilience?
"How lofty he sounds."
Mortarion's gaze grew cold. His brother made no effort to hide his arrogance, scrutinizing him with detached rationality, dismissing everything about him.
On what grounds?
"Heh… childish."
Mortarion sneered as he severed the Overlord's head, pouring his anger into the blow.
He had offered his brother a sincere apology, only to be met with merciless criticism.
His brother denied his resilience, was he trying to prove himself more resilient?
'Pathetic. To steal even traits from a brother. Did he have none of his own?'
'What was he boasting of? What was he trying to prove? Or hint at?'
"Caelan," Mortarion rasped, inhaling the toxic fog, letting it burn his lungs. Between coughs, his voice was hoarse: "Carry him a message."
"Am I your messenger now?" Caelan chuckled helplessly. These brothers were truly at odds.
Jaghatai had indeed been harsh.
In the chronicles, Mortarion's resilience was often judged lacking. Jaghatai, Rogal Dorn, and Sanguinius had embodied true endurance. But none of that had yet happened.
Caelan believed Mortarion would grow stronger than ever. Mortarion never bragged about it, he only urged others to be as resilient as he was. He no longer inhaled poison to torture himself into toughness.
Yet Jaghatai's criticism was relentless. Too much.
"I was wrong, Father." Mortarion bowed his head, voice nearly fading into the air.
"Don't dwell on it. I'm not complaining, nor blaming you."
Caelan placed a hand on Mortarion's bowed head. Mortarion crouched like a child so Caelan could reach. They had always been in sync this way.
Caelan felt both comfort and deep helplessness. Mortarion was a good child, but Jaghatai never truly accepted him. Those sharp eyes always held distance and judgment.
Everyone needs recognition, positive feedback. Caelan was no exception.
Imagine pouring your heart into teaching a Primarch, only to receive silence and indifference.
Anyone would feel discouraged, even defeated.
He endured because the other Primarchs gave him recognition. They valued him as a mentor and father. It was mutual encouragement.
But Jaghatai was different. He saw Caelan only as a source of truth. Nothing more.
Caelan received almost no feedback from him, not even a simple "thank you." Even Typhon called him "teacher." But Jaghatai withheld even that.
The smallest acknowledgment was warmer than his cold silence.
Caelan knew Jaghatai wasn't targeting him. It was simply his nature, always keeping distance.
Caelan never faltered, always dutiful. Yet deep down, he felt a pang of loss.
Compared to Jaghatai, Mortarion was reassuring. He never withheld responses. What Jaghatai denied him, Mortarion gave freely.
Caelan asked softly: "Little Mo, what should I tell him?"
…....
"You seem… deranged."
"Me, deranged?" Jaghatai's lips twitched into a self-mocking smile.
He had offered advice, and his brother called him deranged?
"Little Mo thinks," Caelan chose his words carefully, "you may not fully grasp your situation."
"He thinks I lack self-awareness?"
Caelan did not answer. That was indeed Mortarion's belief.
Jaghatai frowned slightly. Little Mo. Such intimacy.
Just as he suspected, his brother was too dependent on Caelan. That was unhealthy.
A mature Primarch should learn independence. They could learn from Caelan, but not make him their entire life, nor place him above their duty.
He had tried to remind his brother gently. But his brother did not appreciate it, perhaps did not even understand.
So be it. Jaghatai respected his brother's choice.
"Jaghatai," Caelan said gravely, "do you know your greatest flaw?"
"I am willing to hear." Jaghatai's gaze was calm, sharp as a blade.
He did not worship Caelan as some brothers did. Nor did he dismiss him. To him, Caelan was always a respected teacher.
Caelan sighed. "On ancient Terra there is a poem: 'We cannot see Mount Lu's true face, because we are within the mountain itself.'
"You treat everyone as Mount Lu, observing coldly from outside, claiming objectivity. But if you never truly enter the mountain, how can you know what lies within?"
Jaghatai asked: "What lies within that I cannot see?"
Caelan countered: "You can see how high the mountain is, how far it stretches, whether snow crowns its peak, whether trees grow at its base. But what if, inside, there is also a nimble dog?"
Jaghatai asked: "What lies within that I cannot see?"
Caelan countered: "You can see the mountain's height, its breadth, whether snow crowns its peak, whether trees grow at its base. But what if, inside, there is also a nimble dog?"
Jaghatai's eyes narrowed. "A dog?"
"Yes," Caelan said softly. "Something small, alive, moving within. Something you cannot see from outside. You pride yourself on objectivity, but you remain forever outside the mountain. You never step in. You never feel its soil, its air, its hidden life. That is your flaw, you observe, but you do not partake."
Jaghatai's expression remained calm, but his silence was heavy.
Caelan continued: "You keep distance from all things, all people. You believe that makes you clear-eyed. But true clarity comes not only from observation, it comes from experience. Without stepping into the mountain, you will never know its heart."
Jaghatai finally spoke, his voice low: "Perhaps. But distance also keeps one free. If I enter the mountain, I risk being trapped within it."
Caelan shook his head. "Freedom without understanding is hollow. You must risk entanglement to grasp truth. Otherwise, you will forever mistake shadows for substance."
Jaghatai's lips curved into a faint, cold smile. "Then perhaps my brother is the entangled one. He has stepped into the mountain, and now he cannot leave."
Mortarion's name hung unspoken between them.
Caelan sighed. He knew Jaghatai's words were barbed, aimed at Mortarion's dependence on him. But beneath the coldness, there was also a challenge, a demand that Mortarion prove his resilience not through words, but through deeds.
And Mortarion, battling the poison fog of Barbarus, had already accepted that challenge.