Perturabo: "I am Terra's chief architect."
Dorn: "No one asked."
Perturabo's fist shot forward.
Horus intercepted it mid-swing.
"Brother," Horus said evenly, "weren't you overseeing Terra's reconstruction? Why are you on my front lines?"
Perturabo smiled thinly at Dorn.
"If I had remained absent, someone might have assumed himself the Imperium's greatest asset."
Terra and the Wound of Recognition
Perturabo was responsible for Terra's restructuring—orbital defenses, continental reinforcement grids, subterranean bastion networks.
But Terra was ancient. Layered. Buried beneath millennia of construction.
Rebuilding was not glorious.
It was slow.
Meticulous.
Unseen.
So Perturabo split his Legion.
A vanguard remained on Terra executing foundational reinforcement.
The bulk of the IV Legion prosecuted the Great Crusade under delegated command.
Efficient.
Balanced.
Until the poster.
The Poster Incident
Yuki had sensed his irritation immediately.
"Perturabo," she asked directly, "what is troubling you?"
"I am delighted," he replied coldly. "What cause would I have for dissatisfaction?"
She knew that tone.
The brittle edge.
He produced a propaganda broadside—distributed across compliance worlds to celebrate the Crusade's triumphs.
A yellow-armored Astartes stood heroically in the center.
An Imperial Fist.
"Why," Perturabo asked quietly, "is there no Iron Warrior?"
Yuki closed her eyes briefly.
She produced campaign statistics.
Confirmed engagements.
Compliance efficiency ratios.
Public-facing optics.
"The poster highlights Legions with visible civilian-facing victories," she explained. "The Iron Warriors specialize in protracted siege warfare and attritional reduction. It is effective—but not photogenic."
Perturabo flipped through the data.
His mind processed the metrics instantly.
And he hated that she was correct.
"You have already received extensive visibility for Terra's reconstruction," she added.
"Enough," he snapped.
He could not tolerate being told he was "appreciated."
Appreciation was not the same as admiration.
So he returned to war.
The Ork Convergence
An Ork empire spanning multiple systems had clashed with the Luna Wolves.
Horus requested reinforcement.
The Iron Warriors answered.
Shortly after—
The Imperial Fists arrived.
Now the two stood on the same battlefield.
No chessboard.
No simulation.
Real war.
Command Philosophies
Perturabo micromanaged.
Every artillery arc, trench depth, kill corridor and fallback vector lived in his mind simultaneously.
Dorn delegated.
He established structural certainty, then trusted disciplined sub-commanders to execute.
"Shift the heavy bolter line five meters left," Perturabo ordered.
"Unnecessary," Dorn replied.
Perturabo kicked at him.
Dorn stepped aside effortlessly.
"Anger clouds judgment."
Horus intervened again.
"Brothers."
They ignored him.
Dorn outlined layered defense architecture, fallback staging, predicted Ork charge patterns.
Perturabo dismantled the model with statistical counters and siege-adjusted variables.
They insulted each other clinically.
Horus listened.
And learned.
If either of them defended a fortress, it would be costly to take.
If both defended together—
It would be impossible.
The Shift
Horus stood.
They stopped.
He smiled.
"You came because I asked."
That disarmed them.
"If this war gathers under my summons, then allow me command. I swear equal regard to your Legions as my own."
Silence.
Dorn considered.
Perturabo weighed pride against legitimacy.
Both stepped aside.
Horus took command.
And won.
Aftermath
Smoke drifted across the battlefield.
Ork fortifications lay shattered.
"Well done," Horus said sincerely. "Without you both, this would have been bloodier."
Perturabo crossed his arms.
"Who performed better?"
"You both surpassed me."
"Childish," Perturabo muttered, kicking Dorn lightly.
Horus laughed.
"Come to the Vengeful Spirit before we part?"
Dorn shook his head.
"Duty."
Perturabo agreed.
"Campaign momentum must be maintained."
Horus hugged Dorn.
A rare gesture from the stoic Praetorian: a firm shoulder grip in return.
He turned to Perturabo—
Perturabo folded his arms.
"You embraced him first."
Horus blinked.
Usotan appeared behind Perturabo.
"He didn't refuse."
Perturabo turned to scold him—
Horus seized the moment and embraced him.
"Until next time, brother."
Perturabo allowed it.
Barely.
The Legions departed.
Stars swallowed them.
Colchis — Old Chains
"What do you expect of me?" Lorgar asked quietly.
Kor Phaeron sneered.
"Remove Velitas. Cleanse the Legion of doctrinal resistance."
Lorgar lowered his gaze.
"They have guided the Legion well."
A slap struck his face.
Kor Phaeron had done this before.
On Colchis.
Before revelation.
Before godhood.
"Have you secured influence in the Imperial cabinet?" Kor Phaeron demanded. "Have you converted Terra?"
"No."
"Then you have failed."
Silence.
The red-inked annotation lay open in Lorgar's lap.
A single sentence circled carefully.
The greatest practice of faith comes from love for humanity…
"What did you say?" Kor Phaeron demanded.
Another strike came—
And stopped.
Lorgar's hand caught his wrist.
Not violently.
Not angrily.
Simply—
Effortlessly.
For a moment Kor Phaeron saw it clearly.
Not the boy.
Not the penitent preacher.
A Primarch.
The most dangerous kind of being ever engineered.
Lorgar released him almost immediately.
"Foster father, I…"
"Call me Father."
Lorgar stood slowly.
"I will not remove Velitas. The Legion prospers under structure."
"And I will not abandon the cabinet. Influence requires proximity."
Kor Phaeron stared.
Lorgar walked past him.
Not fleeing.
Not rebelling.
Just choosing.
Behind him, Kor Phaeron stood alone.
A New Sensation
Lorgar walked through the corridor, ignoring the murmurs.
His cheek still stung faintly.
But something inside him felt… different.
He had refused.
Not out of rebellion.
Not out of pride.
But conviction.
"So this is the feeling…"
A small, private smile touched his lips.
"So this is the feeling…"
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