Perturabo's return was enough to shake the Imperium — yet the welcome it received was meager in the extreme. Beyond the administrative officials who came to Olympia with various matters to communicate, the Mechanicum was already on its way, and the Fourth Legion's fleet remained berthed in the star ports.
Perturabo had not chosen to return to Terra, and the Emperor had not brought him along to receive any kind of instruction. They had come quickly and they were leaving quickly.
They had only stayed one night before preparing to depart.
The sky above Olympia was not especially bright — a dense field of artificial satellites and several enormous artificial rings had blotted it out almost entirely.
But Perturabo's eyes were not deceived by any of that.
The Imperial fleet rested silently in the star ports.
Perturabo stood on the elevated platform outside the palace, hands clasped behind his back, his gaze passing through the points of light and reaching toward the distance — where his brothers were, where his sons were.
What was Horus thinking about aboard the Vengeful Spirit? Was the Lion still using those sharp eyes of his to scrutinize every defense on Olympia? Had Russ already drained his flask of mead and sunk into the deep, particular sleep of a Fenrisian? Ferrus was surely still in the forge right now, staring at those plasma furnaces with stars in his eyes...
Perturabo let his mind wander to what his brothers might be doing.
He turned and walked back into the depths of the palace. His footsteps echoed in the empty corridor — precise, regular, like a metronome.
On both walls, enormous mathematical formulae and engineering schematics gleamed with a cold light in the dim glow. The murals and reliefs were silent. This was his language. His faith. His world.
He stopped when he passed the workshop.
Everything inside was exactly as he had left it. On the workbench sat the block of material he had selected — still untouched, still unworked.
The walls were covered with his creations: bolt guns, power swords, weapons that he would never admit were "artistic work." And in the innermost display cabinet, the chess pieces waited quietly for their maker's return.
Perturabo stepped into the collection room and let his gaze move across the familiar faces.
Horus, standing in the ruins of Cthonia, his Warmaster's mace in hand, eyes fixed steadily ahead.
The Lion, in the forests of Caliban, sword and shield raised, the banner of the Dark Angels at his back.
Russ, mid-drink, two enormous wolves howling at the sky beside him.
Ferrus, at the forging furnace, molten metal light streaming across his silver arms.
Fulgrim, on the stage in Chemos, adjusting his appearance in front of a mirror.
Vulkan, holding a small girl in his arms, turning his broad back toward the enemy's fire.
Dorn, standing on a towering scaffold, a roll of architectural blueprints in hand.
Guilliman, seated before a mountain of documents, quill still moving across the page.
Sanguinius, wings spread wide, like an angel descending to earth.
Magnus, holding a great tome, the pyramids of Prospero rising behind him.
...
Perturabo's gaze shifted to the "special collection." These were his private little secret.
Dorn teetering on a precarious scaffold. Guilliman buried under an avalanche of paperwork. Sanguinius being vain in front of a mirror. The Lion blowing in Guilliman's face. And the wicked "Dark King" — that malevolent and majestic figure, the side of the Emperor the world would never know.
Perturabo's eyes rested on the "Dark King" for a long time. Had everything that happened tonight also been within his calculations?
Perturabo didn't linger on the thought. He sealed the room and turned away.
Olympia Standard Time: 06:00:00.00.
Perturabo opened his eyes precisely on time.
The neural cables flew automatically to his head and locked into the interface with seamless precision.
Status readings materialized at the edge of his vision: Sleep duration — 4 hours, 23 minutes. All physiological indicators nominal. No anomalies today.
He sat up. The Iron Circle had already prepared the day's nutrient paste and briefings. He spent 3 minutes and 47 seconds completing the meal while simultaneously reviewing the data the logic engines had compiled.
The Imperial fleet was still berthed in the star ports, but several warships had already begun departure preparations.
The first to leave would be the fleets of Ferrus, Dorn, and Guilliman — each had expedition tasks of their own to continue.
Ferrus had been in the forge for a full six hours. The logic engine's report indicated that in that time he had activated seventeen plasma furnaces, analyzed thirty-four alloy formulations, and conducted forty-three technical exchanges with the forge's logic engine systems.
Dorn's people were already waiting outside the palace, carrying an enormous data-slate bearing the fortress schematics he had promised — and a few more that he intended to bring personally.
Guilliman had also sent a message, through the standard Imperial communications channel.
"The Thirteenth Legion departs the star port at 09:00 hours. Our gratitude for Olympia's generous hospitality. We look forward to a future meeting on Macragge."
From the others — nothing. Horus, the Lion, Russ, Sanguinius, Fulgrim, Vulkan, Magnus — all silence.
Perhaps they were still re-evaluating this brother's place in their understanding. Perhaps they simply didn't know what to say. Perturabo didn't concern himself with it.
Calliphone was still sleeping. The banquet the night before had left her and Andros thoroughly drained.
Dorn had arrived. The Praetorian of the Imperial Fists stood at the palace gate, his frame like a fortress in motion.
He wore plain brass-colored power armor — no decoration, no ostentatious cloak. Only the golden fist emblem on his pauldron and the distinctive Imperial eagle at his back. His hand held a large data-slate, and his eyes were calm as he watched Perturabo approach.
"You're punctual."
Dorn said.
"As are you."
The two of them held each other's gaze for a second, then both looked away at the same moment — a wordless understanding between them. They were both the kind of person who felt vaguely irritated when someone was three seconds late.
Dorn handed over the data-slate. Perturabo took it and began reviewing.
The holographic structural schematic of the Phalanx unfolded across the slate — every compartment, every corridor, every defensive node with its parameters laid out clearly. Perturabo's gaze swept through the figures, his mind processing the information at a speed that exceeded ordinary human capacity.
The Phalanx was a relic of the Dark Age of Technology. This space fortress, comparable in scale to a moon, was something humanity could no longer build. Even Dorn could only maintain and repair it to a certain degree.
Perturabo was not short of Phalanxes — there were several such colossal fortresses in the Warp — but the tears in reality needed to bring that kind of power into the material universe were large enough to let a Chaos God pour enough force to shatter several star sectors through them.
Three minutes passed. He looked up.
"The power core layout on Level Seven is flawed. Your reactor cooling conduits run within forty-seven meters of the command center in a straight line. In the event of a breach, the command center loses function in three seconds."
Dorn's brow furrowed slightly.
"That is the safety distance. Imperial standard specifies that the minimum safe distance between a reactor and a command center is thirty meters."
"Imperial standard is the minimum standard."
Perturabo said.
"It is not the optimal standard. My standard is at least eighty meters, with three independent isolation layers and two backup cooling systems."
Dorn was quiet for a moment.
"I will consider it."
Perturabo said nothing more. He reached into his coat and produced a data-slate of his own, which he handed to Dorn. It was the complete technical documentation for the geothermal system he had prepared the night before, along with some weapons system configurations.
Dorn took it and studied it carefully for a moment, then looked up.
"This wasn't part of our agreement."
"Consider it a small gift between brothers."
Dorn looked at Perturabo. No expression could be read on that unyielding face.
"Thank you."
The two held each other's eyes for another second. Then Dorn turned and left. After a few steps, he stopped and looked back.
"The things you said last night — I don't believe you were entirely correct."
"The bureaucratic system can be optimized. It can be improved. It can become more efficient, more just, more reliable. What we need is not to discard it, but to make it better."
He paused.
"You chose a different path. I won't say whether it's right or wrong — but I want you to know that if you ever need help, the doors of the Imperial Fists will always be open to you."
Dorn left. This time he did not look back.
Perturabo stood where he was, watching his back until it disappeared at the far end of the gallery bridge.
Until the Phalanx had fired its engines and pulled away from Olympia, something in Perturabo's eyes flickered — just faintly.
The Gorgon of Medusa looked more animated than he had the night before — "animated" was not a word that usually fit Ferrus, but right now there was unmistakably a kind of life in his face that Perturabo rarely saw.
"Your forge."
Ferrus walked directly to him and cut straight to the point.
"Those plasma furnace designs — who gave them to you?"
"Myself."
"Impossible. The complexity of those schematics — even the Emperor and the greatest Fabricators of the Imperium would need at least ten years of study to arrive at something comparable."
Ferrus shook his head.
"I took three years. Starting from nothing. Three years."
Ferrus went still. He looked at Perturabo, and behind those iron eyes complex emotions moved — shock, doubt, then acceptance.
"You're better than me."
Ferrus said it the way you would state a minor, unremarkable fact.
"At forging, at least. I'm not your equal."
"Thank you for the compliment."
"I like you. You're not a hypocrite."
Ferrus unhooked a weapon from his belt and held it out to Perturabo — a quadrangular war hammer. The head was forged from auramite, and the haft was inlaid with runes unique to Medusa.
"I made this myself. I originally planned to give it to Fulgrim, but he said it was too heavy. It'll suit you better."
Perturabo took the hammer and tested its weight. The distribution was perfect, the center of balance exact, the arc of the hammer head precisely calculated to maximize kinetic transfer on a swing.
He gave the head a light flick with his finger and listened to the ring — the auramite was of exceptional purity, the quenching temperature controlled with exquisite precision.
"Fine craftsmanship."
"I made it myself."
"Thank you."
Perturabo was genuinely pleased with the weapon, even though he already owned no fewer than a hundred hammers of comparable quality.
"Your alloy formulations — I want a copy. Your research and combination work is the best I have ever seen. Not even the Fabricators or the Martian generals come close. Perhaps only Vulkan could stand alongside you in that regard."
Perturabo had the logic engine bring a sample board, which he passed to Ferrus.
"This contains every alloy material combination and ratio I've developed in my years of research, along with some thoughts on forging technique. The plasma furnace schematics and the other design documents are on there as well."
Ferrus took the sample board in his iron hands — hands that could lift structures dozens of meters long. Yet this small mechanical board, in this moment, felt like it weighed a thousand tons.
"I owe you a debt, brother."
Ferrus was short-tempered and quick to anger — in personality he and Magnus were opposite extremes, yet in temperament they were strangely alike. He didn't know what to say. He simply committed the memory of this moment to himself, quietly.
"Then forge more weapons and equipment when you can. It might ease my burdens somewhat."
Ferrus gave a single heavy nod, then turned and left.
Guilliman's fleet was already gone. The corridor route between Ultramar and Terra had yet to be fully opened, and the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar were still in their infancy — Guilliman had already drawn up detailed plans and arrangements for their development.
His schedule during the Great Crusade was genuinely demanding. He had to fight and govern simultaneously, while also navigating political considerations at every turn.
Guilliman's envoy arrived — a Thirteenth Legion officer in an immaculate blue power armor, wearing an array of golden honor decorations on his chest.
He gave Perturabo the Imperial Aquila salute, then presented an elegantly sealed scroll.
"My gene-father asked me to deliver this to you, my Lord."
His tone was respectful.
"A formal invitation from Macragge. Whenever you wish to visit, the doors of Ultramar will always be open to you."
Perturabo took the scroll and unrolled it. The invitation was written in elegant script, each word clearly chosen with care — expressing genuine welcome without a trace of pressure or compulsion, and entirely free of any condescension that might give offense.
At the bottom was Guilliman's personal signature and a miniature laurel-wreath seal.
"Tell my brother that I will come in time. And let him remember — the doors of Olympia are equally open to all of you, always."
The tall Astartes gave another Aquila salute and departed.
Perturabo rolled up the scroll and turned his gaze toward the Mandeville point, where the Thirteenth Legion's warships had already ignited their Warp drives, their blue ion trails vivid against the dark.
Then they vanished from the material universe.
Guilliman was a very shrewd man. He knew how to express goodwill without giving offense. He knew how to leave room for himself while saving face for others.
He knew how to turn a simple invitation into a political statement — a gesture of respect toward Perturabo, and an implicit endorsement of the Emperor's decision the night before.
A man like that, with a mind that ran deep and carried many considerations, was dangerous.
But Perturabo didn't dislike him. A man who could hold to his principles, sustain his ideals, and put them into practice over a lifetime — that earned respect. Especially knowing what the future held: that even after witnessing the darkest things imaginable, he would still hold the line and carry the weight. That was rare enough to admire.
Though what the treachery of the Warp would ultimately cost him, Perturabo couldn't be certain — but he would not allow that particular catastrophe to occur.
At the very least, the Emperor's webway would not be compromised because of Magnus.
And as long as the Four Dark Powers and that certain individual didn't take the field personally, Perturabo's daemonic armies could pulverize whatever forces they sent — their daemon legions and the greenskins alike. Even if the greenskins recovered to the level of the ancient Beast, so long as they dared enter the Warp, the Daemon Forge would have no objection to adding a few more large green specimens to its assembly line.
Calliphone was awake. She sat by the window of her room, the logic engine's display showing the Imperial warships departing from the distant star port.
Olympia's artificial sunlight came through the window and fell across her, making the lines of her face look unusually soft.
Perturabo pushed open the door and came in. He had already compressed himself back down to just over two meters, so as not to make her uncomfortable.
"Why didn't you sleep a little longer, Sister?"
"They're leaving already?"
"Yes. Their duties are pressing. But the Imperium has already left people here, and Imperial fleets will be coming to us regularly before long. Our trade and population flow are going to increase considerably."
Calliphone didn't care about that right now.
"And the one in the golden armor — your father. Is he leaving?"
"Not yet. But soon."
Calliphone was quiet for a moment. She didn't quite know how to put what she wanted to say.
"He seems somewhat frightening."
The words surprised Perturabo slightly. Any ordinary human's first reaction to the Emperor was almost never frightening — not in the way Calliphone meant.
Perturabo crossed the room and sat down in the chair beside her. He didn't speak — he simply stayed there with her.
"What you said last night — is everything really all right?"
Calliphone said softly. She was worried. The Imperial fleet and all those brothers of his were already overwhelming to look at, to say nothing of the Emperor himself.
"It's fine. He won't do anything to me."
"Why?"
Perturabo was quiet for a second.
"Because he needs me."
A look of puzzlement crossed Calliphone's face. What did her brother mean, the Emperor needed him?
She didn't ask. She knew that some questions, even when asked, didn't get answered — at least not yet.
She only reached out and gently took his hand.
"Whatever happens after this, I'll be on your side."
Perturabo looked down at her hand holding his. It was small and soft — next to his own it was almost like something a child would have.
"I know."
The warships of the Iron Hands were plain and unadorned — not a single decoration anywhere on them, only the dense rows of gun barrels gleaming coldly in the starlight. Ferrus had sent no message. They didn't need formalities like that.
Perturabo stood on the high platform of the palace and watched that fleet slowly recede into the distance.
The fleets of his other brothers had begun to leave as well. The Great Crusade had entered its most intense phase, and the Emperor demanded sufficient pace from every Legion — even Magnus, who craved knowledge above all things, could not afford to let the Crusade slip for a moment.
For that, the leader of one of the Five Disciplines of the Thousand Sons had already fallen — a companion of Magnus from his days on Prospero, an old friend who had stood beside him at the Siege of Apex Tower and helped rebuild the world afterward.
No one could disregard an order issued by the Emperor. Not even his own sons.
For the success of the Great Crusade, for the laying of the webway, for humanity's future — the Emperor had already prepared himself for the possibility of his own death.
He, Malcador, the Primarchs, even the Imperium itself — they were all only instruments in the end. He could partition out a portion of his feeling and give it to them. But when it came to the survival of humanity, he would never flinch at the moment action was required.
Perturabo did not like being treated as a tool. He did not like treating others as tools either — even if his behavior, in almost every other respect, expressed an intense need for control.
"Tonight I will see you alone."
A psychic voice surfaced suddenly in Perturabo's mind.
"Agreed."
Olympia at night was more austere than it was by day — even the palace at the citadel peak seemed to take on a certain gravity in the darkness.
The Emperor appeared in the palace's reception room. He had brought no Malcador, no Custodians, no attendants of any kind. Only himself — wearing a simple white robe, a golden laurel crown on his head — standing in the center of the room, looking at the enormous mathematical formulae and engineering schematics on the walls.
When Perturabo pushed open the door and entered, the Emperor was staring intently at one of the more complex design drawings.
"Is this your fortress?"
The Emperor asked.
"Yes. I've been upgrading it continuously — it took three years before I had worked through every flaw I could identify."
"I've been reinforcing its defenses and defensive measures ever since."
"I don't tolerate shortcomings in myself. If I do something, I do it to the best of my ability."
The Emperor was quiet for a moment.
"You are somewhat stubborn."
He turned, looking at him. The golden eyes, in this moment, held none of the sharp pressure of the night before — only something deep and almost weary.
Perturabo said nothing.
"I came to say farewell. The fleet departs tomorrow. The Great Crusade has many matters awaiting me."
"Before that, there are things I wanted to say to you alone."
He paused.
"What you said last night — you were right. The bureaucratic system is deeply flawed. And it's not only the Interior Ministry — the Imperium has many other problems besides, problems that may be nearly impossible to solve permanently."
"The Imperium I built is not perfect. My capabilities are finite. This is already the limit of what I can do, even with Malcador carrying a portion of the weight."
The Emperor knew exactly how great the flaws in his system of rule were. But humanity was running out of time, and he lacked the ability to give humanity true order — the Imperium as it stood was the result of everything he could give.
"But it is humanity's only hope right now. In the face of the Warp's threat, in the face of xenos aggression, humanity must unite — and unity requires order; order requires strength; strength requires sacrifice."
Perturabo's brow furrowed slightly.
"Are you trying to persuade me?"
The Emperor shook his head.
"No. I am explaining to you why I do what I do."
There was something in the Emperor's golden eyes that resisted easy naming.
"Do you hate me for treating you all as instruments?"
The Emperor knew. Some among his sons must have seen it already. Perturabo was simply the one who had seen it most clearly.
"I simply don't care about you."
The Emperor was briefly still.
"You created me. You gave me life. You gave me the knowledge I was born knowing. But none of that is sufficient reason for me to lay down my life for you."
"I exist in this world — not to fulfill your plan, not to be a tool in your hands, and not to serve as one more replaceable part in that distant and nebulous 'great project for the restoration of humanity.'"
"I have my own ideals. My own pursuits."
"I will fight for humanity — because that is my choice, not your command. When a true threat comes, I will step forward."
"But until that day, I will live by my own way."
The Emperor was quiet for a time. And then he smiled.
The look he turned on Perturabo carried something that was unmistakably appreciation.
"Do you know — of all of them, you are the first who has dared speak to me this way."
"Horus flatters me. The Lion is in awe of me. Dorn obeys me. Guilliman tries to understand me. Sanguinius reveres me. But not one of them has ever dared to stand before me the way you have, and say 'I don't care about you.'"
He stepped forward and put a hand on Perturabo's shoulder. The touch was light.
"I am proud of you, my son."
"Not because of your strength. Not because of your intellect. Not because of all that you have built and invented. But because you chose your own path — and had the courage to walk it."
"This is what a Primarch should be."
"Remember what you have promised me. If that day truly comes, I hope you will step forward."
The Emperor's figure faded and disappeared into the palace.
The Vengeful Spirit began slowly moving out of the star port. The vast fleet followed behind it, the lights of the departing ships washing across the planets of the Olympia system.
Perturabo watched that light grow distant. Grow smaller. And finally vanish into the Mandeville point.