Chapter 65: Yes… Warmaster?
The Emperor's latest decree had been issued.
And its consequences were immediate.
For one full month—
The Master of Mankind had been receiving daily reports from His sons.
Not strategic briefings.
Not campaign updates.
No.
Complaints.
"My father! The Inquisition has kicked down my door three times today!"
— Fulgrim
"My father… should Terra's construction output really be this low?"
— Horus
"Terra is… stable."
— Joint report from Rogal Dorn, Lorgar Aurelian, Magnus the Red, Angron, Perturabo, and—most concerning of all—Erebus
The Emperor stared at the reports in silence.
For a long time.
"...Do they take me for a corpse upon the throne?" he muttered.
Across Terra, the situation had… escalated.
Outside the sanctity of the Imperial Palace, chants could be heard in every district:
"Praise the Golden God!"
"Glory to the Divine Architect!"
Simultaneously—
The thunder of artillery never ceased.
Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors clashed day and night—not in open war, but in a bizarre cycle of destruction and reconstruction.
A building would be raised by the Imperial Fists—
Declared a heretical gathering site by the Inquisition—
Demolished by Iron Warriors artillery—
Then rebuilt again.
Faster.
Stronger.
More defensible.
Then destroyed again.
The Emperor pressed his fingers to his temple.
He was beginning to suspect—
That there were no heretics left on Terra.
No civilians either.
"What kind of Imperium?" He muttered darkly, "Can endure infinite demolition and reconstruction?"
He closed His eyes.
Exhaled slowly.
"…Two more days."
If necessary—
He would intervene personally.
"Erebus…" the Emperor said under His breath, crushing a grape between His fingers, "…you will leave Terra."
Soon.
Elsewhere…
Who am I?
Where am I?
Why am I still here?
Oll Persson stared blankly at the mountain of documents before him.
His hands trembled.
His soul… had long since left his body.
To his left—
Kor Phaeron slumped over his desk, eyes hollow, surrounded by endless requisition orders.
To his right—
A Word Bearer named Damikos calmly sipped recaf, as though this bureaucratic nightmare were a pleasant retirement.
"Don't worry, Persson," Damikos said cheerfully. "Once we finish this room… we can move on to the next one."
Oll Persson slowly turned his head.
"…I want to see Erebus."
He stood up.
Immediately—
Two figures restrained him.
Ahzek Ahriman, his eyes glowing faintly with psychic restraint.
And Jarulek, immovable as a statue.
"Lord Erebus has given strict instructions," Ahriman said calmly. "You are… functionally immortal."
Jarulek nodded.
"You do not require sleep. Only sustenance."
Oll Persson froze.
"…I was tricked."
Realization dawned.
Slow.
Painful.
Inevitable.
"I was kidnapped… dragged here… and turned into a clerk."
He dropped the quill.
Ahriman immediately lifted it with psychic force—and placed another in his hand.
Efficiency was paramount.
"Emperor… you traitor…"
"Erebus… you monster…"
Oll Persson's despair echoed throughout the chamber.
Meanwhile…
Erebus, the object of so much suffering—
Was entirely unbothered.
He walked calmly behind Malcador the Sigillite, accompanied by Lorgar, Magnus, and Angron.
They moved through the polished halls of Terra with purpose.
Magnus studied Malcador from behind.
There was something different.
Since Erebus's return…
The Sigillite smiled more.
That alone was deeply unsettling.
"Where are we going?" Angron asked bluntly.
"To visit Horus," Malcador replied.
Silence followed.
Yes.
They were going to see Horus Lupercal.
The Emperor's favored son.
The future Warmaster.
The fulcrum upon which fate itself would one day turn.
And today—
He would meet Erebus properly.
Horus's Chambers
Horus stood in quiet contemplation before a grand painting.
A masterpiece.
Painted by Fulgrim himself.
It was technically impressive.
Emotionally overwhelming.
And accompanied by—
Endless commentary.
"…and you see, brother, the interplay of light and form represents the duality of—"
Horus nodded.
Smiled.
Endured.
Around his finger rested a ring gifted by the Emperor.
Around his neck hung a small golden icon—given by Lorgar days earlier.
Salvation came in the form of Gaviel Loken.
"My lord," Loken said, bowing slightly. "Your brothers have arrived."
Horus exhaled.
Freedom.
Moments later—
The doors opened.
Malcador entered first.
He nodded politely, accepted a cup of tea, and sat without ceremony.
Then came the others.
"Welcome, my brothers," Horus said warmly. "It has been too long."
He greeted Lorgar first.
"I trust the command of your Legion proceeds smoothly?"
"Good."
The voice did not belong to Lorgar.
Horus paused.
Erebus stepped forward.
"…And you are?" Horus asked, frowning slightly.
"You have seen me before," Erebus replied calmly. "But allow me to reintroduce myself."
Horus studied him.
Recognition flickered.
"…Erebus. Yes. From earlier."
He inclined his head slightly.
Polite.
Measured.
Erebus raised his hand.
High.
Solemn.
"Yes, Warmaster."
Silence.
Then—
PFFT—!
Malcador spat out his tea.
"…What did you just say?"
But Erebus continued, unwavering.
"I am Erebus, Commander of the Word Bearers."
"For the Imperium."
"For the Golden God."
"And for the future Warmaster of mankind—Horus Lupercal."
"I pledge my loyalty."
Horus went pale.
His mouth opened—
Then closed.
Malcador's psychic force subtly sealed his ability to respond.
Horus looked around wildly.
At Magnus.
At Lorgar.
At Angron.
No one reacted.
No one stopped him.
"Wait—no—I didn't—" Horus finally managed, stepping back. "This is slander!"
His composure cracked.
"I have not been named Warmaster!"
His voice rose.
Desperate.
"This is division! This is treason!"
He turned to Lorgar.
"Brother! Explain this!"
Lorgar nodded calmly.
"It is true," he said. "Erebus currently acts as commander within the Word Bearers."
Horus froze.
"That is not the issue!"
His head began to ache.
Too many contradictions.
Too many impossibilities.
He turned slowly—
Looking at Malcador.
Hoping.
Praying.
That this—
This madness—
Had not already reached the Emperor's ears.
Malcador said nothing.
He simply sipped his tea.
And smiled.
End of Chapter 65
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