Chapter 308: Lorgar's Doubt
Since Hades's beloved ship was still in the Rust System, the Anathame was temporarily stored within a stasis field aboard a Black Ship, guarded under heavy security by ranks of Blank troopers.
Hades decided he'd eventually ask the Lord of Figurines whether he wanted to take the thing—and if not, he'd just throw it into a star.
The Emperor, however, was not pleased with that plan. Though the sword's history was foul beyond measure, if Hades were to translate what the Emperor had said to him, it would go something like this:
[Because of the sword's unique nature, it can quickly reattach itself to new Warp significance—and even on the physical level, it remains an exceptionally sharp and masterfully forged weapon.]
That only strengthened Hades's determination to get rid of it. If it's that good, why don't you keep it, Emperor?
After that first night's massive catch, no more major anomalies appeared in the Perfect City.
Using the identities of the corpses from that night, Hades managed to trace and dismantle a small heretical sect—few in number, mostly elderly, and almost all of Colchisian descent.
From further investigation—made easy thanks to the full access he had wrested from the planetary governor—Hades confirmed that these were remnants of Colchis, Lorgar's homeworld: religious survivors who had slipped through Imperial purges.
As for why such a group had taken root within the Perfect City… records showed they were mostly low-ranking attendants once attached to the Word Bearers Legion, later resettled in the city as part of routine personnel transfers.
Several Word Bearers had maintained occasional coded contact with them—and after Hades successfully cracked their improvised cipher, one name appeared beyond all doubt:
Erebus.
The deeper Hades dug, the more every clue pointed back to that name.
—Hades was ready for execution.
. . .
Aboard the Fidelitas Lex.
In recent days, Lorgar had been feeling increasingly uneasy—a vague, oppressive premonition weighed upon him, clouding his thoughts and disturbing his prayers.
It should not have been this way. Lorgar reminded himself that their Legion was about to spread the Emperor's light to a new civilization—peacefully, without shedding blood, just as they had done countless times before. Lorgar had convinced them, and they had agreed to embrace faith.
He should have felt calm, even joyful. After all, he was no general, no lover of blood and fire. Among all his brothers, if there was one who could plainly admit he neither liked nor excelled at war, that one could only be Lorgar.
The others were either enamored with violence or too proud to confess such weakness.
Only Lorgar could accept it quietly—and even take comfort in his own gentleness.
But now… that long-standing calm has been broken. A sense of dread crept in, shapeless and suffocating.
Lorgar tried to hide his unease, but there were those around him who knew him too well—who could see through him easily.
On the seventh day of his retreat in the meditation chamber, his foster father Kor Phaeron and his First Chaplain Erebus knocked upon the heavy marble doors.
A thick stench of blood greeted them, sharp and metallic.
Inside, Lorgar knelt in silence. In one hand he held the Lectitio Divinitatus; in the other, a thorned scourge—its barbed length slick with clotted blood that dripped slowly onto the floor.
He wore a coarse robe of deep crimson-brown linen, rough fabric clinging to his skin—soaked, dried, and torn again by his own blood.
The Primarch did not turn to face his uninvited visitors. His head was raised high, eyes fixed upon the towering effigy of the Emperor that hung above the room's center, and he questioned Him—aloud, demanding an answer from the silent god he had made.
Kor Phaeron and Erebus, of course, knew what to do in such situations.
They quietly and patiently found a patch of floor untainted by blood and sat down.
The Primarch's elevated voice eventually faded. Lorgar panted for a moment, and after a long silence his breathing steadied again. Stiffly, he rose to his feet and re-hung the scourge.
Then he turned. His gaze met those of his visitors—calm, serene, the surface of a still lake reflected in his golden eyes.
The Primarch sat cross-legged on the floor, the Lectitio Divinitatus resting in his hands.
"It has been seven days, my lord. Are you well?"
Kor Phaeron spoke first, and Lorgar could sense in the old man's tone a father's concern for his son.
"I have tried to find peace… but something is about to happen. My soul feels restless."
"What is it that troubles you? Under your guidance, our Legion has taken world after world—without shedding a single drop of blood."
Lorgar's lips curved into a faint smile.
"Not only me, Erebus—my First Chaplain. Without you, none of this would have gone so smoothly."
"But…"
Lorgar's fingers tightened around the book in his hands. The weight of the heavy binding gave him a strange sense of comfort.
"This victory brings me no calm. I have tried to pray, yet my faith does not answer. On the contrary… He feels… foreign to me."
Kor Phaeron looked at the Primarch with growing unease, his voice trembling slightly.
"He… He has changed?"
Lorgar shook his head gently.
"It must be I who have changed. I can sense it clearly—the same as long ago on Colchis, during those endless, dry nights, when an ignorant boy awoke in terror from dreams, and found golden blood seeping from his eyes and ears."
He turned his gaze upon Kor Phaeron. As Lorgar's foster father, the old man could see the pain that lay beneath that calm exterior.
"Back then, I thought it was a divine omen—that I was the chosen believer. I remember that feeling vividly… and now—it has returned. It has covered me once more."
When he finished speaking, Lorgar wearily covered his eyes with both hands and rubbed his face.
As the Primarch's eyes left them for that brief moment, Kor Phaeron and Erebus exchanged glances.
They were both troubled—whatever their Primarch had sensed, it did not match what they had been told. According to the gods' instructions, according to the movement of the stars… this was not the appointed time.
Had the gods changed their plans?
Out of caution, neither of them had installed any channels of direct communion with the Powers aboard the Word Bearers' fleet—all such conduits were carefully hidden on the Legion's own worlds.
Finally, Kor Phaeron spoke in a careful whisper.
"My lord… what do you think this means?"
Lorgar slowly shook his head.
"I am still trying to understand Him. Yet even self-punishment and scourging no longer bring the clarity they once did. Meditation and revelation have grown… dim, uncertain. It feels as though He is…"
Lorgar's voice grew softer and softer until it trailed into silence.
A long, heavy quiet filled the blood-scented chamber.
The coals crackled in their brazier, casting glints of light over the brass instruments of penance. Kor Phaeron and Erebus should have spoken—it was what they had always done, guiding their Primarch's spirit.
But his words had sown doubt in their minds.
They had received no prophecy, no forewarning.
So why had the gods acted early?
Or worse—had this happened without their hand at all?
At last, Erebus wet his cracked lips and spoke.
"My lord, you are always troubled by doubt—wondering whether your deeds are righteous. But such fears are needless. We act according to divine revelation, spreading the truth as the gods have commanded. The god of wisdom rewards His faithful… perhaps this unrest is merely a passing weakness of the spirit."
Lorgar opened his mouth slightly.
"A true believer seeks no reward. Truth itself is the greatest gift He has bestowed upon us, Erebus."
Erebus gave a faint smile.
"Yes, my lord, that is precisely what I meant. We—"
A sudden, frantic knocking at the door cut his words short. The First Chaplain's brows drew together sharply in irritation.
"Enter," Lorgar said.
A junior chaplain stumbled inside, drenched in sweat, his eyes wide with fear. His voice trembled as he tried to form words.
"M-my lord— you— you must see this astropathic transmission— it's from the Perfect City— the Perfect City has sent a distress call!"
Erebus's face went pale. Lorgar's expression froze.
"They said— they said the Emperor Himself has ordered the burning of the Perfect City! He commands the Word Bearers to return there at once— to face judgment!"
Lorgar shot to his feet.
The Lectitio Divinitatus slipped from his lap and struck the floor with a heavy, echoing thud.
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