Jendo Skraivok of Nostramo—scion of a minor noble line—would, in another timeline, earn the title The Painted Count.
In this one, he was about to die.
"Instructor—wait—Instructor, I—"
The Thunder Warrior's fist crashed into Jendo's helm.
The impact shattered ceramite like brittle glass. Shards tore into the aristocrat's tattooed face, embedding into flesh marked with gang sigils and false heraldry.
He screamed.
Blood streamed through fractured lenses.
Before he could beg properly, the Thunder Warrior's boot struck his chestplate. The armor caved inward with a metallic shriek. Jendo collapsed, breath ragged and bubbling.
Islilan did not look back as he walked away.
The Thunder Warriors lingered just long enough to sweep their gaze across the Astartes cadets. No one moved. No one intervened.
When they departed, only Jendo's fading breath disturbed the silence.
Decline
Islilan suppressed his anger with effort.
The Eighth Legion's academy had always been harsh. Nostramo was not fertile ground for virtue.
But this?
This was rot.
At first, the intake had been strong. Brutal, yes—but disciplined. Some even exceptional. Sevatar had been among the finest: precise, sharp-minded, efficient.
Islilan had once imagined boasting about his students to other Legion instructors.
Now he felt only disgust.
The recent recruits were different.
Too arrogant.
Too politically protected.
Too entitled.
"What are they feeding them in Nostramo?" one Thunder Warrior muttered. "Gang pride and aristocratic delusion?"
Investigation revealed the truth quickly.
Several new aspirants were not true candidates at all.
They were planted.
Criminal sons of Nostraman nobles, smuggled into recruitment streams to gain legitimacy within the Legion.
Political infiltration.
Within the Night Lords.
Islilan's jaw tightened.
"They dared kill someone directly appointed by the Primarch," he muttered. "And thought we would not notice."
A Legion built on fear and punishment had become a ladder for corrupt aristocrats.
"Sir," one Thunder Warrior asked, "what do we do with the rest?"
Islilan thought carefully.
"Contain them. Discipline any resistance."
He paused.
"When the Primarch returns, he will decide."
Several Thunder Warriors exchanged grim looks.
They knew what that meant.
Nightfall
The Nightfall, Gloriana-class flagship of the Eighth Legion, drifted in void-dark silence.
Its halls were dim by design.
"So this is intentional?" Shen muttered. "We're not just saving on power?"
Sevatar snorted.
"Anyone who enjoys Nostraman aesthetics needs psychiatric intervention."
Shen gave him a flat look.
"You actually hate it that much?"
Sevatar's expression sharpened.
"Nostramo breeds hypocrisy. Darkness there hides cowardice. Here it's honesty."
He adjusted his gauntlets.
"I'm here to see Father."
Shen's tone shifted.
"Is it serious?"
"Yes."
Sevatar knocked once and entered.
Koz's chamber was nearly lightless. Only scattered candles burned. Hooks along the walls held skeletal remains—training relics, deterrence symbols, psychological tools.
Sevatar did not flinch.
He located Koz immediately.
The Primarch crouched beside a massive striped predator, feeding it raw meat.
"Father," Sevatar said evenly. "I thought this creature required feeding annually."
Koz lifted his head slowly.
The tiger—genetically reinforced and heavily conditioned—licked blood from his palm with surprising delicacy.
Yuki's "solution" for isolated Primarchs.
A companion resilient enough to survive transhuman affection.
Koz had taken to it.
The animal did not judge.
It did not lie.
It did not fear him unless it had reason.
"What troubles Nostramo?" Koz asked quietly.
Sevatar explained.
Noble infiltration.
Criminal aspirants.
Political tampering with Legion recruitment.
As he spoke, Koz's expression shifted.
His lips curled—not in humor.
In anticipation.
The tiger sensed the change and withdrew.
"Prepare the fleet," Koz said softly.
His paired chainblades—Mercy and Forgiveness—whirred faintly at his sides.
"Tell them the Night Haunter returns."
Elsewhere — The First Legion
On the Invincible Reason, the First Legion convened in secrecy.
Lion El'Jonson listened as his inner circle presented findings.
"Identities?" the Lion asked.
Astelan shook his head.
"They're embedded carefully. Likely cabinet-sponsored. But we cannot trace the origin conclusively."
The Lion's gaze darkened.
Luther intervened smoothly.
"Speculation without proof breeds internal fracture."
The Lion did not respond immediately.
Whispers of political maneuvering had increased.
Warmaster speculation.
Regent speculation.
Every Legion measured against every other.
Arachos suggested simple containment.
Luther disagreed.
"If someone is mapping our structure," he said, "it is not curiosity. It is preparation."
The Lion tapped the table once.
"Separate them. Restrict access to sensitive operations. We do not purge without certainty."
His tone allowed no argument.
The council dispersed.
The Lion and the Cat
In his chamber, the Lion read in silence.
The enormous genetically-engineered lion Yuki had gifted him lay sleeping nearby.
He had initially rejected it.
It resembled the beasts of Caliban too closely.
Only after extensive observation—and absence of warp-taint—had he tolerated its presence.
He tried to ignore it.
He failed.
After several minutes of pretending to read, he rose, lifted the four-meter predator effortlessly, and returned to his seat.
The creature tolerated relocation with long-suffering patience.
He stroked its mane absently.
Knock.
Luther entered.
He stopped mid-step.
The Lion immediately stood, setting the lion aside with unnecessary force.
The animal slunk back to its place without complaint.
"What are Father's orders?" the Lion asked flatly.
Luther handed him the document, suppressing a smile.
"Didn't you say you disliked pets?"
Silence.
The Lion stared.
Luther laughed.
"Very well, very well. I was never here."
He retreated, closing the door.
Once safely outside, Luther withdrew a small leather-bound notebook.
He wrote carefully:
Secret Number One Hundred and Twentieth: The Lion King likes to pet cats.
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