Zahariel arrived slower than Morgana expected.
When the three Primarchs and their honor guard met on the bridge, the Dark Angels' fighter had just stumbled into the hangar of the Steadfast. Zahariel, travel-stained, apologized to Morgana who was there to greet him.
"There was a riot of mortal crewmen on the battleship. Some of them mutated while crossing the storm. The scale was considerable, and I had to adopt a collective punishment measure, eliminating all involved personnel, which wasted some time."
Zahariel explained quickly, his tone flat as if recounting an ordinary trivial matter. As his last words slowly fell, Morgana had already led him to the bridge. From a distance, they saw Garro standing at the entrance of the conference room.
The Battle-Captain of the Death Guard Legion seemed to be in charge of the bridge's security. He stood at the sole entrance to the room, surrounded by a group of silent warriors. As Morgana approached, Garro stopped her, feigning an inspection.
Through a glance and the voices coming from the room, Morgana instantly understood Garro's meaning.
Not yet. Don't go in.
And at the moment of her realization, the Pale King's furious voice echoed from within the room.
------
"What were you thinking, Horus!"
"Letting a sorcerer! Become our equal? Letting her sit with us in this meeting? Do you know what you're saying?"
The angry and vicious voice of the Lord of Barbarus resonated through the room, crackling on everyone's armor. Mortarion breathed heavily, and even the Barbarus poisons he carefully preserved continuously spread with his questioning, causing some figures standing in the corners, such as Abaddon, to frown involuntarily.
But those truly at the core of the room, such as Horus, Jaghatai Khan, and their close aides—Sejanus and Tarik—faced it all expressionlessly. Beneath their equally calm facades were various thoughts.
Horus sat at one side of a meticulously crafted round table, flanked by his two Primarch brothers. Opposite him, a fourth chair was placed, empty, clearly reserved for someone: this was the reason for the Lord of the Fourteenth Legion's fury.
"Horus, my brother, I have always respected you, respected your wisdom, your rationality, your strength, your majesty, but I also believe that this respect is built on a foundation of mutual respect between you and me. It's not some meaningless sacrifice, nor worthless loyalty; it's a friendship, a great relationship based on the resonance of rationality and wisdom!"
"And now, on the Steadfast, on my battleship, I don't want to hear words like that again. That sorceress from the First Legion, that vicious harpy nurtured by Lion El'Jonson, what right does she have to sit with us and discuss matters of war!"
Mortarion roared, exceptionally angry and stubborn. Only a small part of this vicious fire was due to the sorceress he utterly detested; a larger part was directed at Horus: his brother, the one he trusted and admired most, and the words just spoken by Warmaster Horus, which trampled upon the Death Lord's dignity and boundaries.
Yes, trampled.
Though Warmaster Horus had merely inquired, with a tone almost bordering on humility, about the possibility of the First Legion's silver-haired representative sitting with them, this did not prevent Mortarion from viewing the inquiry as an unreasonable declaration sufficient to completely shatter their friendship: on his battleship, to have him sit with a complete and utter sorceress who had shamed him?
Horus might as well find another reason to duel him.
Horus remained silent, quietly enduring Mortarion's wrath. He showed no sign of annoyance and did not intend to answer it. After all, the Death Lord's questions were too sharp; no matter how he answered, it could cause a rift in their relationship.
But Warmaster Horus was not without a plan.
For at the very moment Mortarion's anger ignited the room, the Lord of the Eagles, sitting opposite him, also opened his eyes.
"Your vicious attitude towards psykers makes me uneasy, my brother, especially since my sons will be fighting alongside your warriors in the coming times."
"My Stormseers, many of whom are psyker-warriors, are destined to fight by my side and will appear in your and your warriors' sights. Your words make me worry whether they will be met with friendly aid or a scythe of resentment?"
The Khan's words were like refreshing rain in a hot summer night, instantly dispelling the angry aura in the room. The Death Lord also turned his head, no longer looking at Warmaster Horus.
Seeing this, a light flickered in Horus's eyes: previously, Warmaster Horus had seriously considered how to mend the relationship between these two members of his inner circle, but during this campaign, Horus gradually confirmed one thing.
The Eagle Khan and the Death Lord might appreciate each other on another level, but the differences between them in various fields were far too great for such appreciation to bridge.
Jaghatai and Mortarion might never be friends: if so, then Horus would find what was beneficial to himself in their clashes.
Mortarion smiled, a mocking laugh filled with sneering and icy fury. He looked at his brother, his deep-set eyes shooting out a look of contempt.
"Don't play these word games with me, Jaghatai. If you're really worried about those clever brats under your command, then tell them to shut up, find a place to hide, and escape this war. Isn't that what you're good at?"
The Khan gave a soft snort, not showing the slightest anger at his brother's sarcastic tone. This only plunged Mortarion into deeper resentment. He slammed the table and stood up, leaning forward.
"If you want to know my stance, my brother, I can tell you, plainly: no matter when, no matter what happens in the future, I will never tolerate any sorcerers or their filthy tricks. Out of respect for our blood relation, allowing your so-called Stormseers to walk around in my sight is my greatest concession!"
"In place of my sons, I thank you for your generosity, Death Lord~"
Mortarion laughed, a pure, cold laugh. His anger slowly subsided with his laughter until he crossed his arms over his chest and addressed his brother with an utterly arrogant tone.
"Stop speaking in riddles, you Chogorian. I don't believe you can't see that, with the pace of the Great Crusade, all sorcerers will eventually... This is the will, a will from above us. If you haven't adapted to it yet, Jaghatai, I suggest you do so quickly. This Galaxy is not your Chogoris, where you can be a carefree king on warm grasslands."
"The future will come eventually, Jaghatai. Either adapt, or submit. Something will always disappear with our conquest, because they are blasphemous, evil, and have no place in a realm of reason."
"You'd best adapt to all of this. If you truly care about your descendants, then don't let them be among those destined to disappear. Don't let them walk too far down these futile paths."
"Chogoris is never warm, Mortarion, and I have no interest in more futures. Living in the present is already a sufficiently difficult and interesting challenge."
Mortarion chuckled softly, saying no more. He sat down, his anger largely gone. In his renewed words, there was only a detached mockery, but also reason, and a piece of advice with a Barbarus flavor.
"You will understand, Jaghatai, you will understand one day. There are things in the Galaxy that are inherently evil and vile. They deserve no sympathy or pity. The only energy that needs to be spent on them is thorough destruction and cleansing."
"Sorcerers, any sorcerer, are unworthy of pity. Perhaps those spell-wielding warriors behind you seem calm and rational, but that's because they are around you, and your strength and bloodline constantly remind them to remain humble."
"But how many people like you and me are there in the entire Galaxy? And sorcerers are like dirty stars, so numerous that they can never be killed off. Do you know how many sorcerous overlords and xenos I have encountered? And how many star systems and worlds have they poisoned? And what price have my sons paid to eliminate these wretches?"
"When you truly join this Great Crusade and witness your legion and sons bleeding before these vile sorcerers, you will understand."
"Sorcerers, any sorcerer, are unworthy of pity. They revel in immense power that comes without warning, and their inner darkness is provoked by it. Their rationality and kindness disappear with it, or perhaps never truly existed. They are the stains of the Galaxy."
"Do not attempt to understand or forgive any sorcerer, for every single one of them is born guilty—without exception! Because this power itself is corrupt!"
"No power is inherently evil, Mortarion. At least, I haven't encountered any yet."
"Then you need more experience. After all, ignorance is nothing to be proud of."
"Perhaps, my brother, but so far, I have learned enough in life. The cold winds of the grasslands and the cycles of life and death have taught me some truths, and I continue to benefit greatly from them to this day."
"Such as?"
"For example..."
The Primarch of the Fifth Legion leaned back in his chair. Perhaps influenced by Mortarion's recent words, the Khan spoke a little more than usual.
"A loyal dog gives birth to two offspring. One grows up around the camp, following its mother and master, accompanying horses by day and resting by the fire at night. A few years later, it becomes a defender of the flock, a partner any hunter would dream of."
"The other wanders the wilderness. The cold wind is its comfort, carrion its food. It witnesses the slaughter and hatred among beasts, learning the skills of survival. As it grows in death, it naturally becomes the nightmare that keeps all shepherds awake."
"At that point, if you go back to their birth, to the moment they nestled together in their mother's embrace, how could you determine which one would be the fiercely loyal hound? Which one would be the bloodthirsty jackal?"
"What shapes a wolf is never sharp claws, nor a mouth full of fangs, nor so-called bloodline or innate nature."
"It is the hunger in the belly, the witnessed slaughter, and that heart, honed to be incredibly greedy, incredibly savage, incredibly foul."
"No power is inherently corrupt, my brother."
"In your eyes, a low whisper can kill a warrior. Can a precisely aimed bolter round not do the same?"
"A psyker can enslave a world. Can a cunning tyrant not do the same?"
"A magic-infused storm can disrupt a sector. Can a well-equipped band of brigands not do the same?"
"Yes, Mortarion, my stubborn brother, we have killed countless sorcerous xenos and overlords, but what truly shaped them, what made their rule so rock-solid, was it simply because of psychic powers?"
"No, Mortarion."
"It is chaos, it is ignorance, it is the most powerful killing weapon controlled by a savage and greedy heart, it is the countless individuals who act as accomplices to these tyrants."
"It is this burning Galaxy."
Jaghatai's words ended with this short affirmation, his voice lingering like a fading echo in the room.
Tarik stood behind his gene-father, head bowed, his expression unreadable.
Horus and Sejanus maintained impassive faces; perhaps they learned something, or perhaps they already knew.
Typhus hid his face behind his helmet, while further away, Abaddon tilted his head, listening to the Primarch's discourse, before turning his head away after only a little while.
Opposite the Khan, Mortarion's pupils were hidden in shadow. His breathing had become steady, and the Barbarus poisons no longer bothered the surrounding guards.
He was quiet for a few seconds.
"You won't convince me, Jaghatai."
"I know, and I don't care."
"After all, that's Horus's job."
Before the Khan had finished speaking, Warmaster Horus had already stood up: he had been waiting for this moment, waiting for his brothers to return to a calm platform.
"All right, Mortarion, my most enduring brother, I apologize for my offensive remarks just now."
Mortarion looked up at Horus: he had walked over, a warm hand placed on the Pale King's shoulder.
"You still decided to let that sorceress in, Horus?"
"I won't make new mistakes, my brother, but you must know that whether it's that sorceress or that Dark Angel, what I care about is never themselves, but the First Legion behind them."
"They are allowed to enter, to sit with us, because they represent the First Legion's participation in this campaign, not because of my favor towards them."
He leaned down, close to Mortarion's ear, as if the rising poison gas did not affect him at all.
He spoke, a gentle whisper.
"Mortarion, my brother, my ideals have always remained, and therefore, I understand perfectly."
"What right do they have to be compared to you? Only the entire First Legion can be mentioned alongside you."
Then, Warmaster Horus straightened his back again. He looked at Abaddon in the distance and gave his command.
"Let them in. Let Zahariel and the others in. Tell them that I have reserved a seat for Zahariel, the representative of the First Legion, and that Lady Morgana may also listen to this strategic meeting—they will understand my words."
Of course, they would understand, Horus thought to himself. Although the conversation with Morgana hadn't yielded more information, it at least confirmed that the Soul Drinker was not someone who held grudges.
In that regard, he and she were quite similar.
Indeed, with the change in the identity of the seated participant, Mortarion's last vestiges of anger finally dissipated. He closed his eyes once more, a near-silent whisper flowing from his lips.
"Horus..."
"I hope this isn't your lie."
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