Chapter 51 Title Is Hard to Think Of
"What kind of person do you think this new guy is?"
Ferrus's mouth twitched slightly.
"…A show-off."
Ten minutes had passed.
The newcomer had advanced barely ten steps.
He moved with deliberate grace, pausing to turn, to incline his head, to allow the crowd to admire him from every angle. He listened to the cheers as if they were part of a performance crafted for him alone.
Anyone unfamiliar with the situation might have believed this was a ceremonial procession staged for dramatic effect.
That was it?
This thought passed through nearly every Primarch present.
They had expected something extraordinary — someone their father personally escorted to Terra.
Instead, they saw a dazzling peacock basking in applause.
Only Fulgrim seemed completely at ease in the spectacle — because he understood it.
Mordecai Threxion spoke carefully:
"Don't you think he resembles our sister?"
"Similar… yet not," Ferrus replied, lips pursed — a surprisingly philosophical remark from a man of iron.
Horus studied the figure closely.
"A few shared features. Beyond that… no."
Both possessed white hair and violet eyes.
Yet the differences were unmistakable.
Yuki's hair shone like pure frostlight, flowing to her waist.
Fulgrim's silver-white hair fell to his shoulders, gleaming like polished metal.
Her violet eyes were bright and lucid.
His were deeper, like amethyst beneath shadow.
Both were beautiful.
But differently so.
Fulgrim looked sculpted — perfection crafted by deliberate design.
Yuki's beauty felt effortless, natural, disarming.
Could that be Father's reason?
Because he resembles her?
Horus almost laughed at the thought.
His father was not so shallow.
Yet… he understood how deeply Yuki mattered to the Emperor.
All of them did.
And they accepted it.
Horus's thoughts strayed somewhere dangerous.
Is Father seeking comfort in resemblance?
The thought struck him like a blow.
He slapped himself sharply.
The others stared.
Horus exhaled slowly.
What nonsense was he thinking?
His father was not a man who sought substitutes.
Fulgrim's procession lasted nearly half an hour.
When he finally reached his brothers, he blinked his luminous violet eyes and offered a radiant smile.
"My dear brothers, I am Fulgrim. It is a pleasure to meet you."
Only Horus greeted him warmly.
The others introduced themselves with measured reserve.
Ferrus and Mordecai Threxion, both pragmatic to the extreme, found theatricality wasteful.
Russ simply observed, expression unreadable.
Fulgrim noted every reaction.
Disappointment flickered — brief and controlled.
Then vanished.
He would win them over.
Perfection required patience.
"Your Highnesses, this way."
Malcador gestured toward the transport.
Fulgrim paused.
"You must be the Chancellor. Where are our father and sister?"
Malcador smiled.
"His Majesty is attending to state matters with the Princess."
Elsewhere
"What is it, Father? Say it."
The Emperor inhaled slowly.
"I am sorry."
Yuki crossed her arms, tilting her head.
"What are you apologizing for? The wise and invincible Emperor cannot be wrong. Clearly I was meddlesome and petty."
The Emperor wondered, not for the first time, how someone so even-tempered could deliver irritation with such precision.
Remembering Malcador's advice, he continued:
"I acted impulsively. I did not consider all consequences."
Yuki opened her mouth —
—but he raised a hand.
"I do not regret the decision. I would make it again."
"I know," she said softly, head lowered.
"If you regretted it, we would not have what we built."
Silence settled between them.
Then she spoke again:
"But value yourself more.
I told you to bring more guards.
I told you to let me stay at your side.
Do you understand how important you are?
Or do you believe yourself an omnipotent god?"
"…I will remember."
"Will you forget again?"
"…No."
"If you lie, I'll flick your forehead."
"…Agreed."
She looked up, eyes bright.
"Then I forgive you."
"Not angry anymore?"
"I was never angry."
The Emperor considered this.
Then decided not to argue with reality as she defined it.
She departed, wings lifting in a quiet gust of air.
Balance had returned.
A psychic call came from Malcador.
"Your Majesty, the Third Legion wishes to name themselves the Sons of the Emperor."
The Emperor, in an unusually good mood, replied immediately:
"Granted."
Their bearing, discipline, and aesthetic excellence suited the title.
"And the welcome banquet?"
"Yuki will handle it."
Malcador sighed in relief.
Better this way.
The Emperor's idea of social engagement had historically included trials by ordeal.
The Banquet
Yuki arrived late.
Fulgrim leaned close; a faint floral scent followed him — oils, perfumes, something refined and subtle.
"Sister, I hear you prepared these dishes yourself?"
She planted her hands on her hips proudly.
"Well? Delicious?"
"They are extraordinary. Chemos knew hunger, not cuisine."
At the table:
Fulgrim charmed and conversed elegantly.
Horus spoke with Ferrus about campaign logistics.
Mordecai Threxion listened quietly.
Russ focused entirely on eating.
Yuki approached Russ.
"What's wrong? Why not talk with your brothers?"
Russ grinned.
"If I talk, they'll finish the food."
Laughter spread around the table.
"Eat, Russ! No one's stealing it."
They teased him because they trusted him.
Because beneath the wildness stood loyalty as solid as bedrock.
Then Russ stopped eating.
Silence fell.
He stood abruptly.
"Sister. The Space Wolves have duties awaiting them. I have seen my brothers. I will return."
Horus frowned.
The Sixth Legion was still rebuilding after the Ork annihilation campaign.
No mission was urgent enough to leave a Primarch's reunion feast.
He signaled Mordecai Threxion.
"You are closest to him. What is wrong?"
Mordecai Threxion shook his head.
"He has withdrawn from me lately. I do not know why."
Yuki watched Russ depart without a word.
Space Wolves Quarters
His wolf guard gathered immediately.
"Why are you back so soon?"
"Didn't the Princess cook tonight?"
Their confusion bordered on outrage.
Their king never left food unfinished.
Russ grinned.
"No reason. I was bored."
He dismissed them.
When alone, he looked down at the golden spear resting on the floor.
The Spear of Russ, gifted by the Emperor himself.
He nudged it farther away with his boot.
A humorless chuckle escaped him.
"So this is how fate plays its games…"
In the quiet chamber, the Wolf King stared into the shadows, wrestling not with enemies…
but with pride,
expectation,
and the weight of being chosen.
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