Chapter 37: The She-Wolf and the Four-Armed Emperor
The chamber was sealed in darkness.
No light penetrated its walls, no sound escaped its boundaries. Only the low hum of psychic energy and the faint, nauseating pulse of the Warp lingered in the air.
At the center of the ritual hall stood Magnus the Red, Lorgar Aurelian, Erebus, and Kor Phaeron, along with a handful of trusted attendants. Beneath them, inscribed in gold and ash, a summoning circle flickered erratically.
Within it lay a broken Warp entity, its form phasing between existence and dissolution.
Dead.
Alive.
In the Immaterium, such distinctions were meaningless.
They had attempted this ritual dozens of times.
Every result had been the same.
Failure.
Erebus crossed his arms, his expression dark.
"Again."
But the problem was not the ritual.
It was Magnus.
Whenever Magnus the Red extended his will into the Warp, it responded with overwhelming hunger. When he had once proclaimed, "Come to me in person, and I will grant you everything I possess," the Warp had nearly torn open entirely.
Daemons had surged forward in such numbers that even Erebus had been forced to intervene, choosing which among them would manifest.
A competition.
Among monsters.
Predictable.
Pathetic.
Their first successful summoning had been a disaster.
A bloated servant of Nurgle had emerged, its decaying flesh sloughing from its body as it exhaled a stench so vile it bypassed even Astartes physiology.
Kor Phaeron gagged violently, his enhanced form trembling as his body rejected the corruption.
No one stepped forward.
No one dared.
With visible disgust, Kor Phaeron unleashed a pulse of psychic force, banishing the creature instantly.
No one objected.
They prepared for another attempt.
And then—
Reality tightened.
Erebus paused mid-motion. His gaze sharpened as he counted those present.
"Magnus. Lorgar. Kor Phaeron… Garrulek…"
He stopped.
Then slowly turned.
"And… Him."
Silence fell like a blade.
The Emperor of Mankind stood among them.
He had not arrived.
He had simply been there.
Before anyone could react, Erebus was lifted into the air, his limbs bound by an invisible force. Around him, fragments of wood, metal, and broken structure tore free and assembled themselves into a crude frame.
Magnus' eye gleamed with interest.
"…May I?"
The Emperor did not answer.
He did not need to.
A psychic lash formed in Magnus' hand, crackling with contained Warp energy.
Then it struck.
Erebus screamed.
The sound echoed through the chamber—raw, unrestrained, and utterly undignified.
It was not the scream of a martyr.
It was not the scream of a hero.
It was simply Erebus.
And for the first time, the Emperor smiled.
"You may continue."
The words fell lightly, yet they carried absolute authority.
Lorgar froze, his breath catching.
Approval.
Divine approval.
Behind him, Kor Phaeron whispered, "This will be doctrine."
Lorgar closed his eyes briefly, then stepped forward.
Erebus met his gaze.
Betrayal burned between them.
Traitor.
Lorgar's grip tightened.
"For the Emperor… forgive me, brother."
The lash fell.
Again.
And again.
Magnus circled slowly, watching with intense focus, as though studying a complex phenomenon rather than witnessing punishment.
The summoning circle flared once more.
This time, a hunting beast of Khorne emerged—a Flesh Hound, its form rippling with muscle and rage.
It snarled—
Then looked up.
Two Primarchs.
One Emperor.
The creature immediately collapsed, exposing its throat, its tail wagging frantically in submission.
Survival instinct triumphed over bloodlust.
"Wait!" Erebus gasped between lashes. "I have a question!"
The Emperor's gaze shifted toward him.
A mistake.
"Is it true," Erebus continued hoarsely, "that you once took the form of a she-wolf to raise abandoned children… and perhaps another form, walking among mortals unnoticed?"
Silence.
Utter.
Total.
The Emperor turned his head slowly.
Lorgar was thrown aside effortlessly.
A golden psychic lash formed in the Emperor's hand.
Then—
Judgment descended.
The Flesh Hound was annihilated instantly, erased so completely that not even its essence remained in the Warp.
"Forget what was said," the Emperor commanded.
Reality itself seemed to obey.
The summoning circle ignited again.
A new figure emerged—graceful, trembling, and all too familiar.
Shaeluna.
A servant of Slaanesh.
She froze.
Her gaze fell upon Erebus—bound, broken, and being mercilessly scourged by the Emperor Himself.
She collapsed instantly.
"I surrender!" she cried. "I submit to the will of the Emperor!"
Tears streamed down her face, her voice breaking into panicked sobs.
Kor Phaeron sneered. "Pathetic."
"Wait," Lorgar said, stepping forward. "Do you know anything of the 'familiars' bound to the Thousand Sons?"
Shaeluna nodded frantically.
"Yes! A servant of the Changer of Ways—one who specializes in such bindings! I can provide a name!"
"Do so."
She hastily produced a strip of flayed parchment, etched in shifting Warp-script.
Kor Phaeron did not touch it.
A servitor retrieved it instead.
After a brief examination, he nodded. "It appears genuine."
Shaeluna bowed deeply.
Once to Lorgar.
Once to the Emperor.
Then she fled without hesitation.
Silence lingered in her wake.
A daemon of Slaanesh had bowed to the Emperor.
Even He paused for a moment.
Then—
He resumed.
One lash became two.
Two became four.
Manifested arms of psychic force extended from the Emperor's form, each wielding a weapon of punishment.
Erebus screamed louder.
"Four arms?! What is this madness?!"
More arms formed.
Six.
Eight.
Each precise.
Each relentless.
This was not anger.
This was correction.
Despite the chaos, progress had been made.
Kor Phaeron and Magnus quickly refined the summoning method, stabilizing the process and improving control.
But it came at a cost.
Books.
Scrolls.
Entire libraries.
The knowledge of Prospero itself would be consumed as fuel.
Magnus stood in silence for a long moment.
Then he closed his eye.
"…Very well."
The price would be paid.
And deep within the Warp—
Something ancient watched.
And laughed.
End of Chapter 37
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