The Iron Warriors had been given time off.
Perturabo genuinely didn't know how to counsel his sons. What he hoped was that they would find for themselves something worth protecting — something that belonged to them.
The Legion's institutional structure could be reformed. The fleet and the Resentment Intelligence forces could be optimised. But the strength of a person's inner life couldn't be increased through external force.
"Iron within, iron without" should not be merely a slogan — otherwise, how was it different from the Emperor's claim that the Great Crusade was for humanity?
But looking through his psychic senses at those sons of his drifting around with blank expressions, Perturabo suspected they weren't going to arrive at any answers in this particular period.
Astartes were loyal to the Emperor, loyal to their fathers — but when it came to their own hearts, they consistently struggled to see clearly what they actually wanted.
In the end, they were all children who had been remade with immense power at a young age. Outside of war, most of them understood almost nothing.
The Iron Warriors were better off than most, at least — the majority had received proper education. Though pride had caused some to lose themselves along the way, overall they were still a reasonably excellent group.
Other Legions' Astartes were a different story. Setting aside the current Ultramarines, every Astartes had clawed their way through brutal selection and trials to earn that name.
Ferrus and Russ in particular — one applying pure survival of the fittest, the other subjecting Fenrisians to the Wolf Trial as though their lives meant nothing. That both Legions were as large as they were owed much to the fact that both Primarchs had returned early.
The others were much the same. Perturabo found it genuinely difficult to imagine what those Astartes had been thinking the moment they crawled out of whatever hell had made them.
But he also acknowledged one thing — some degree of trial was necessary. Virtual training could give these young men knowledge of war. A sharper mind might even extrapolate broader understanding from those simulations.
But perhaps experiencing genuine difficulty — learning firsthand that life was precious — was equally important. Even if that seemed almost laughable within the context of Warhammer, and even though Perturabo himself was hardly a role model in that regard.
He didn't know how to incorporate this into the virtual training. He wasn't even sure whether he should keep sending his sons into the training chambers at all.
"So, brother — you think I might be able to help you think through some of this?"
Vulkan put down the candy floss near his mouth and looked at this somewhat troubled brother.
"Yes. I have no intention of forcing their wills into a particular shape. But their thinking may need some seeds planted, some direction offered — and I'm not sure I can do that."
Perturabo had come to the kindest and most compassionate of his brothers to help inject something into his Legion's way of thinking. Not sainthood — but at minimum, something more like Dantioch's disposition.
Firm when firmness was needed. Clear-headed when decisions had to be made. Without being excessively soft-hearted. Capable of genuine empathy toward ordinary people.
Perturabo couldn't do this himself. How could he share experience he didn't have?
He was, by his own admission, brave only in words. If he were otherwise, he wouldn't be resorting to high-pressure management and thought control to govern his populations — he'd have done it Guilliman's way, with rational order and consistent fairness as the guiding principles.
But right now, Perturabo needed this very much.
"How can I help, brother?"
Vulkan didn't refuse.
Perturabo explained his training methods to Vulkan, then asked him to develop some supplementary training frameworks for the Iron Warriors.
He wasn't sure this would work. A person naturally kind of heart wasn't always good at articulating that quality — let alone helping someone else build training around it.
He probably should have brought Guilliman in to advise as well. That brother always had ideas.
"I'll try. Though I'm not certain my ideas will be of much use to you."
Vulkan looked at Perturabo. This was hard to reconcile — this was the Iron Tyrant. Unyielding. Supremely proud. His reputation in the Imperium decidedly mixed. And right now he was just a father who had worried himself to pieces over his children.
"Father."
"How is the Chaplaincy program coming along? Have you found any candidates from the recent training cycles who might fill those roles?"
Perturabo was discussing this with Dantioch. Training and recuperation on Olympia wasn't enough on its own — once they were back on campaign and the fighting started, war would rapidly pull their thinking back toward old patterns. That was when the Chaplains became important.
"Chaplains" was perhaps the wrong word. What these were was closer to political officers.
"Several candidates have been identified. But the numbers are still insufficient. I need more time before I can settle on enough."
"No rush. Once this can be properly implemented, I'll add a few more surgical enhancements, and then we resume the Crusade."
"Yes."
But Dantioch had a lingering concern.
"Father — are you certain the Imperium won't send someone to hold us accountable?"
"Don't worry about them. Whatever they have to say, let them come find me."
"Yes."
Dantioch departed. Perturabo was about to go and review the data recovered from the Ancestor Cores of the Squats when the logic engine spoke.
"My lord, the flagship Pride of the Emperor has appeared at the outer Maelstrom. Third Legion Primarch Fulgrim requests an audience."
Fulgrim? What was he here for?
Perturabo was genuinely puzzled. He had no particular connection with this brother — their first meeting hadn't been especially warm.
"Arrange it. I'll see him."
"Yes."
The Pride of the Emperor moved through the interior of the Maelstrom with surprising ease. The Warp contamination here had been pressed to minimal levels by Perturabo and the Iron Warriors — even ordinary people could live in this region without significant harm.
"My brother remains as dependably fond of these austere constructions as ever. Look at these fortress worlds — entirely without character. Artistic beauty is given no room whatsoever to breathe."
"If I were responsible for them, I would have made them both exquisite and lethal — without this bloated heaviness."
"Don't you agree?"
Fulgrim spoke to his sons, and that perfectly sculpted, handsome face drew more than a few momentarily distracted stares. Particularly the natural fragrance emanating from Fulgrim himself, and the expensive oils in his hair, and the shining gold ornamentation across that purple armour. The proud Phoenix had always been one of the Imperium's finest faces.
"Perhaps the Iron Tyrant would benefit from some of your guidance, Father."
Eidolon stood at his side, greedily drinking in the scent his father carried, deeply and entirely unable to resist it.
The Phoenix Guard stood not far away. Abdemon and Commander Vespasian were together, Soltar'vez standing behind both of them, watching Eidolon and the others fawn and flatter.
When had this started? How had the Legion come to this?
The father who had once been willing to lower himself for mortals — why had he gradually surrendered to this world of appearances and vanity?
Was the purpose of being Children of the Emperor to drift ever further toward the pursuit of hollow grandeur? Shouldn't perfect sons be making their inner selves genuinely flawless, and ensuring their actions actually merited the name?
When had the reflexive contempt for other Legions' coarseness and mortals' weakness become part of the Children of the Emperor's identity?
Vespasian and Abdemon couldn't understand how this had happened. When the Legion had been reduced to two hundred survivors by the wasting sickness, Fulgrim's resolve and determination had been enough to move even the Emperor.
Back then, he could lift a small girl onto his shoulder and laugh easily with his sons and the mortals around him about the years he'd spent labouring in Chemos's mines and workshops.
But now, looking at Fulgrim — ever more resplendent, ever more remote, already radiating a quality of keep your distance — Vespasian felt the change was genuinely wrong.
Should a Primarch really be this lax? Had the weight of expectation really made his will this fragile?
The Children of the Emperor now demanded artistic perfection and absolute tactical elegance even in battle. This had created entirely unnecessary casualties for no reason that could be justified.
War wasn't something you could perfectly predict. War wasn't something a precise tactical model could always accurately capture. What was the point of chasing this kind of hollow display?
Abdemon had been the first to say so openly — the First Blade had gone to his father with his concerns about the Legion's direction, and been dismissed and rebuked. Eidolon and the others had used the opportunity to mock the First Blade further.
Abdemon's cooking was already catastrophic. And now the First Blade, proudest of the proud, had started suggesting they return to what the Legion had once been—
Either way, Abdemon's counsel wasn't taken. The Third Legion was gradually sinking into a pathological pursuit of reputation and surface glory.
Eidolon in particular — Vespasian had come close to simply running him through.
The arrogance was bad enough on its own. But acting unilaterally during joint operations, dragging his men into encirclements, and having brother Legions bleed themselves dry trying to pull the Third out — and then having the audacity to claim afterward that the battle was his triumph, and that all the damage was everyone else's fault for not following his lead.
If that story weren't so damaging to tell publicly, and if Eidolon weren't the Father's favourite and First Company Captain, Vespasian would have put a bolt round through his head right there.
"You've decided to go on independent deployment? From what I've heard, the situation with the Tenth Legion is difficult at the moment. Here, you're still Father's First Son, the First Blade, Second Company Captain."
"But outside, your standing doesn't necessarily carry the same weight. The Iron Hands have a different culture — they don't have a particularly high opinion of us."
Vespasian spoke to Abdemon.
"I'll take Second Company's brothers and go. We'll continue to live by what we are. The Children of the Emperor shouldn't be like this."
Vespasian didn't argue further. His old friend was proud and stubborn — but standing beside him in battle from those early Terra days, there had been no one who made you feel more secure simply by being present.
"Tarvitz — what are your thoughts?"
Vespasian looked at this brother — born on Chemos like the others, but whose convictions and spirit aligned far more closely with the old Terran-born veterans. Both of them genuinely respected him.
Saul Tarvitz simply shook his head.
"I'll stay in the Legion. I'll take care of Tenth Company. I won't let the Legion's current mood infect my men."
Tarvitz was very like Vespasian in this — which was why both of them had such genuine affection for this younger brother.
A purple and ornate shuttle landed on the Dome Palace's landing platform.
Fulgrim stepped out.
That iconic purple power armour. The Phoenix Claws of the Third Legion on the pauldrons. A large purple gemstone set into the chestplate. Gold ornamentation everywhere. A magnificent purple cape catching the breeze.
White hair falling loose across his shoulders. Purple eyes carrying a quality that drew people in, and a charming smile on his face — and yet something in that smile made people also feel a subtle distance, a faint signal to stay back.
But in Perturabo's presence, none of that appeared.
He was as beautiful as Sanguinius — but where the Angel was approachable, the Phoenix was removed.
A brother who had been deeply damaged by honour and expectation. The Imperium's model Legion had placed pressures on them they should never have had to bear, and those pressures had gradually bent their thinking into something wrong.
Much like how Perturabo had always placed too much pressure on his own sons.
But Fulgrim and the Children of the Emperor were considerably worse off than the Iron Warriors.
This kind of soul-sickness was difficult to treat. Perturabo couldn't solve this problem even if he wanted to. He couldn't even solve his own problems. How could he be a good doctor for his brothers?
"Brother."
Fulgrim spoke. His voice was like velvet moving over silk — graceful and soft.
"It has been a long time."
He stepped forward and embraced this tall brother without any ceremony, as though he'd never been a guest here.
"It has."
"Your Olympia looks more orderly than when we last visited."
Fulgrim's gaze moved across the architectural lines, precise to the micron, and his mouth curved slightly upward. Looking closely, these buildings had their own genuine quality.
"Every structure sits precisely where it should. Every road takes the optimal path. This is engineering at its finest — but also another expression of aesthetic beauty."
"You grow more accomplished with every passing year, brother."
Fulgrim's smile was infectious — at least it made Perturabo presently uncertain whether what he'd just said was genuine praise or elegant mockery.
"Come inside. I've prepared a banquet for you."
"What brings you to Olympia so suddenly? Is there something you need?"
Perturabo asked as they walked.
Fulgrim followed him, his footsteps graceful, each step with a precision that felt somehow deliberate.
"Chemos is right next to you. Visiting a brother and catching up — is that not the most natural thing in the world?"
Perturabo said nothing.
Fulgrim smiled. Perfect and captivating.
"All right, the truth. I've been rehearsing an opera recently. I wrote and arranged it myself. I'll be performing it personally. I want to invite you to watch."
Perturabo stopped walking and turned to look at him.
"An opera?"
"Yes."
A flash of genuine excitement in Fulgrim's eyes.
"Not the usual court melodrama. Not the war epics singing of glory. Just our story — the story of us brothers and our father."
Perturabo subtly increased the distance between himself and Fulgrim, whose eyes had taken on that particular intense gleam.
"Our story?"
"Yes. Ours."
"I've composed an opera for every one of our brothers. I want to leave something eternal — art that endures between us."
"I had originally intended to invite the Gorgon first, but he can't be spared from the Crusade right now. I imagine he won't have the chance to be the first to witness my performance."
"Such a pity."
Fulgrim pressed a hand to his chest, an expression of genuine theatrical grief on his face — which caused Perturabo to subtly increase the distance between them again.
They sat in chairs that were luxurious in an understated way. Calliphone and Andos were present as well, sitting nearby with the two of them.
"So, brother — what do you think? I can promise you this opera will be extraordinary. Bring your family along — you won't be disappointed."
Fulgrim sipped the wine brought from Baal and looked at Perturabo as he spoke.
He deeply wanted his art to be recognised. Especially by his brothers. The idea of that recognition filled him with something close to joy.
Because it also meant they remained, in the Imperium, what they had always been — perfect sons of the Emperor.
"All right."
In the end he couldn't resist his brother's enthusiasm. Perturabo agreed.
"You'll receive a surprise, brother."
Fulgrim raised his wine cup and drained it.
Aboard the Iron Blood, Perturabo looked through the large pile of design documents Fulgrim had left with him.
The beautifully laid out pages were genuinely pleasant to look at.
Some were fragments of musical score. Some were rough sketches for stage design. Some were lyrics for arias he was currently rehearsing—
Fulgrim had put real effort in. Perturabo could see that. It was just that everything in here felt false — a hollow quality to all of it, something forced and affected.
That artificially constructed vanity irritated Perturabo's nerves at every turn. He genuinely struggled to understand why Ferrus was apparently so interested in this kind of thing.
Was it because Fulgrim knew how to forge weapons? Or had Ferrus simply never found the right moment to tell Fulgrim that his work was unpleasant to look at, and had been enduring it?
If anything resembling these elaborate but entirely vapid documents showed up on a desk in the Iron Citadel, Perturabo would have the engineer responsible sent to the Halo Stars border to work alone within the hour.
This brother was being driven toward a kind of madness. He'd been back only a few years. Was the pressure of not wanting to disappoint the Emperor really this crushing?
Perturabo didn't understand it — but he felt that one way or another, Fulgrim needed to be pulled back.
If the Children of the Emperor were left to develop in this direction unchecked, the gradual corruption from the Great Slaanesh didn't even need to play a direct role — Fulgrim would reach an extreme path on his own. That wasn't acceptable.
Perturabo had already learned that lesson himself. He didn't want the same thing to happen to his brothers.
But he couldn't think of how to help.
Chemos had arrived. This was Perturabo's first real visit to a brother's home world in any genuine sense.
Baal had been rebuilt. Nocturne had been forcibly transformed. But Chemos was the first Legion home world to which he had been properly invited by a brother.
The planet had always been resource-poor — but Fulgrim had changed much of that. Though its position meant it could never be truly prosperous, it was at least stable and calm.
And Fulgrim's high standards had left their mark on Chemos. Culture and the pursuit of perfection were pursuits approached here with something approaching fanatical dedication.
Calliphone and Andos were experiencing, for the first time, human beings who cared this deeply about etiquette and comportment.
Dantioch and Tolaramino simply and straightforwardly disliked this atmosphere. Iron Warriors didn't value this kind of thing — they found ostentatious culture actively irritating.
The escort members felt the same. The place looked perfect on the surface — but the suppression underneath was genuinely frightening.
Just walking the streets, they could feel the locals carefully managing every gesture, every expression, every micro-movement — terrified of doing anything that might leave a mark on Chemos's reputation.
This level of suppression was impossible to conceal from Perturabo. That precise control of micro-expressions and behaviour, the obvious fear of error — it made him deeply uncomfortable.
Not even the worlds under his own domain were this psychologically constricted.
"Brother, Chemos welcomes your arrival."
Fulgrim, in a magnificent purple robe, had prepared an elaborate honour guard to receive Perturabo and his party.
"This is wasteful. There's no need."
Perturabo's flat response did nothing to reduce Fulgrim's smile or enthusiasm.
"If Chemos were not so resource-poor, I would have arranged something even more magnificent — like the welcome Father gave us when we returned to Terra."
Perturabo fell silent again. Calliphone and Andos, the sons following behind him — all of them could feel the sickness in this place.
It was difficult to imagine how the people living here managed their inner lives. Constraining thought and behaviour to this degree was far more exhausting than simple physical labour.
The Children of the Emperor had been pulled out to serve as the honour guard, their already-honourable power armour decorated to the point of excess, those handsome faces arranged in expressions of polished pride.
The whole thing produced, almost involuntarily, a physical aversion in Perturabo. If the person responsible for Chemos weren't his brother, he would have sent all of these people to work in rehabilitation colonies on the outer worlds.
"What do you think of it, brother? I designed it myself."
Looking at the vast opera house before them, a flicker of self-satisfaction crossed Fulgrim's eyes.
The enormous dome was inlaid with tens of millions of coloured glass pieces and gemstones, catching the sunlight and scattering dreamlike light in every direction.
On either side of the opera house stood two enormous sculptures. One was a phoenix. One was Ferrus Manus. And at the back, another tall structure was beginning to take shape.
That one was his. Perturabo identified it immediately.
There would be no opera house like this in Olympia. This was far too much — the kind of place where excess was the entire point, dripping with decadence at first glance. Perturabo's instinctive reaction was rejection.
He didn't like this.
"Very lavish."
Fulgrim's chin rose slightly. He was clearly pleased with the response.
Praise from this master engineer of a brother meant the work was a success.
The interior of the opera house was even more extravagant than the outside. The dome was painted with enormous murals depicting the Third Legion's campaigns — scenes of Children of the Emperor warriors fighting bravely.
Gold bas-reliefs covered the walls, narrating the story of Fulgrim's conquests.
The stage was enormous — capable of accommodating a hundred thousand performers simultaneously. Above it, tens of thousands of lighting fixtures were suspended, each one individually controllable for colour and intensity.
"I spent three years designing this opera house."
Fulgrim stood at the centre of the stage, arms spread wide, head tilted back to look at the murals on the dome.
"Every detail here is something I poured myself into. The sculptures, the murals, the stories — all in service of one purpose: letting perfect art bloom here."
Perturabo stood in the front row of the audience, looking at Fulgrim on the stage.
He had thought the Terran nobility had already given him a concrete image of what wasteful extravagance looked like. Fulgrim had updated that understanding.
The resources spent building this place, redirected to war, would have expanded Fulgrim's fleet by at least a third.
"You'll perform here tonight?"
"Yes, and I'll invite all of Chemos's people to come and celebrate with you — and I will personally take the stage to offer you, my brother, a feast of opera unlike anything that has come before!"
Looking at Fulgrim lost entirely in his own fantasy, Perturabo thought this brother might genuinely be beyond saving. He was starting to seriously consider whether he needed to do something about this before it went further.
Night fell on Chemos — a planet saturated with perfectionist obsession, where even the evening breeze carried something artificially crafted.
The enormous opera house blazed with light. The fractured reflections of glass and gemstone filled every corner. But the darkness in Perturabo's chest had deepened.
He sat in the front row. Beside him, Calliphone and Andos, both somewhat stiff. Behind him, the Iron Warriors in their neat power armour, posture rigid as cold sculpture — at odds with the elegant but excessive bearing of the Children of the Emperor surrounding them.
Chemos's citizens had gathered here. Their Primarch was performing for his brother, and they were permitted to bask in the honour of witnessing it.
Fulgrim had long since changed into a custom performance robe — purple silk embroidered with golden phoenix motifs. Hair swept up. Features so precisely arranged they might have been cut from stone by an artist's hand.
He stood at the centre of the stage, and when his gaze touched Perturabo, the intensity behind it flared. As though he intended to pour every striving for perfection in his entire life into what he would show this brother tonight.
The orchestra began. Lavish. Empty. Like the opera house itself — the ultimate in accumulated luxury, without a single degree of actual warmth.
The performers — mortal and Astartes alike — followed Fulgrim's movements and voice. It was visible that they had rehearsed for a long time. But the presence of two Primarchs in the audience produced a palpable weight, and they couldn't quite match Fulgrim's rhythm.
The opera itself was simple in content — a celebration of the Primarchs' achievements. With only Perturabo here, what Fulgrim was performing was the story of his own and Perturabo's deeds.
Fulgrim sang of him. Entirely absorbed in it — at the most emotionally intense moments, tears actually formed and fell, sending the atmosphere in the opera house toward something close to a peak.
Perturabo had no reaction whatsoever. His expressionless face made the people behind him feel as though the temperature had dropped. Fulgrim's impassioned performance could not mask the cold underneath the noise.
"I assumed you relied entirely on armoured forces and Terminators for your assaults — I didn't expect your swordsmanship to be at this level as well."
Abdemon and Tolaramino had taken to the training ground, both of them stripped of armour now. A duel of honour was unfolding above the audience.
Until now, no one had encountered anyone who could be spoken of in the same breath as the First Blade when it came to swordsmanship — with the sole exception of the Imperial Fists' Sigismund. No one else had ever been named alongside Abdemon.
Yet that Iron Warrior down there — enormous frame, extraordinary strength, and apparently no less skilled with a blade.
Abdemon was being driven back step by step. He had no answer for it. When techniques were comparable, physical size and strength nearly always decided the outcome.
Dantioch was also surprised. Among the Astartes alive right now, he hadn't expected to find anyone who could push Tolaramino to this level. He had assumed, after the Custodians, they were without rival.
It appeared the brother Legions had many formidable individuals he hadn't been aware of. He should keep notes on this going forward.
On the floor, the fight was over.
"I've lost."
The two Cthonean pattern swords had been knocked out of Abdemon's hands. Victory was no longer possible.
The Children of the Emperor were incredulous. The First Blade had just lost?
And now this Iron Warrior would never get to taste Second Company Captain's cooking?
What a shame.
The spectators who had hoped for a different outcome were mildly disappointed — though they gave enthusiastic applause for the quality of the duel regardless.
"Why do all of you have that expression? Are there actually more formidable people among the Children of the Emperor?"
Dantioch noticed the looks on Vespasian and the others' faces and asked.
Tolaramino beside him also looked interested. He hadn't had his fill yet — there were very few people in the Legion he could fight this freely without holding back. Other than a few Warsmiths, Tolaramino was about the most capable fighter in the entire Legion. The duels with his fellow company captains rarely let him cut loose completely.
And yet here he had found someone. What could be said — the Children of the Emperor's individual combat rating being first overall — it was apparently well-deserved.
"No — it's just a pity you won't get to taste Second Company Captain's cooking. That's considered one of the Legion's 'legendary experiences' — whenever someone loses a duel, he personally cooks for the fighters afterward. Since he lost this time, he probably isn't in the mood to cook."
Seeing that these two apparently had no context for what this meant, Vespasian felt an unusual and rare urge toward mischief. The Children of the Emperor around him were finally showing genuine interest.
"Yes, yes — Second Company Captain's culinary skill is truly something — you must try it — you'd break his heart if you didn't!"
"Absolutely — the kind of 'unforgettable excellence' that brothers from other Legions who have tried it consistently rave about!"
"Truly the dish you simply cannot miss if you've come to our Legion — fully half our Legion's bonds of brotherhood have been forged and sustained by Second Company Captain's remarkable artistry—"
"Oh, is it really that good?"
Tolaramino was becoming genuinely interested.
"Would we deceive you, brother? Guaranteed to leave a lasting impression you will simply never be able to shake—"
Vespasian's words had moved not only Tolaramino but Dantioch as well.
Sensing that the hook had set, the Children of the Emperor abandoned all pretence of dignity and piled in to coax both of these large and apparently trusting individuals into trying the Third Legion's "finest delicacy."
Looking at Abdemon's faintly bewildered expression, both Dantioch and Tolaramino felt that declining now would be somehow rude.
And so—
Two plates of something spectacularly polychromatic were placed before them.
A pot base of deep green carrying the kind of "layered depth that only years of dedicated development could produce." Crimson and ink-purple playing off each other in something that could charitably be described as contrast. Meat of deep blue releasing a flavour that defied any clear categorisation.
Both Dantioch and Tolaramino had gone slightly green.
Was this correct?
But looking at the excited faces of all the Children of the Emperor around them, and Abdemon's expression of genuine anticipation — as though both of them failing to eat this would cause real heartbreak — that look of pitiful earnestness softened them completely.
The two men exchanged a glance with the air of soldiers walking into their final battle. Closed their eyes. And consumed the entire contents of the bowl — which their current physiology was reflexively rejecting at an instinctual level — in one go.
"G— good. Delicious."
Dantioch felt that if he had previously accumulated any sins, the brief span of this moment had probably cleared all of them.
Tolaramino lost consciousness immediately. He was on the floor.
Dantioch, suppressing the revolt of three stomachs, tried to stand — and at the mere formation of that intention, produced a spectacular expulsion and then joined Tolaramino on the floor, where he lay insensible, releasing fluids in four distinct colours.
Through the fading edge of awareness, he thought he could hear something like "—the Second Captain's done it again—" "— stretcher team! Stretcher—"