"I do not question your command, Primarch. I understand that even the accused has the right to defend himself at trial," Shen murmured in softly accented Nostraman. "My concern is…"
He faltered, his expression twisting as if his linguistic faculties had abruptly short-circuited, leaving him scrambling for words. For three full seconds—an eternity by Astartes standards—he stood frozen. Yet no one, not even the Primarch, pressed him.
Finally, Shen exhaled, bowing his head to avoid Fujimaru Ritsuka's gaze. "You are ever too merciful…"
Indeed, she is, Conrad Curze thought with disdain. Shen would never dare such hesitation under me. But then he realized the equerry's words carried a meaning he hadn't grasped, as the girl responded:
"I understand you, Shen." Her Nostraman was equally hushed. "Scoletech is still of the Legion, still a son of midnight—but he has committed grave crimes. The losses are irreversible, and his status cannot shield him from judgment. I swear to all present: I will not show undue leniency. I need his testimony not just for procedural rigor, but to understand what drove him and his house to this atrocity. This was my failure as Nostramo's ruler, so I must learn every detail. 'Past experience, if not forgotten, is a guide for the future.' Only by knowing where I stumbled can I avoid falling again. Does this satisfy you?"
"It does. Your will shall be done."
To Conrad, the explanation was gratuitous—yet Shen seemed genuinely convinced. The equerry bowed and departed, his steps light. The ease of his obedience baffled the true Primarch of the Night Lords.
A Primarch's mind worked swiftly. In that instant, Conrad dissected the exchange: Shen's uncharacteristic softness (which he scorned), the absurdity of a mortal commanding the Eighth, and how he would have reacted. But the moment passed as another voice shattered the silence—this time in High Gothic, uninvited:
"As Shen meant to say, my lord, you are too merciful at times."
The speaker was a black-armored Atramentar. Conrad knew that voice: Jago Sevatarion, arguably his favorite son—perhaps his only favorite. Even under Conrad's own rule, the First Captain had enjoyed rare privileges.
But this was beyond tolerance. To speak unbidden in formal counsel, let alone criticize the Primarch? Even Sanguinius would have reprimanded such insolence. Though the challenge wasn't directed at him, Conrad bristled at Sevatar's audacity—and the others' indifference. This was clearly routine.
In his memory, Sevatar was never this irreverent. Then again, memory often gilded truth: Sevatar had dared to speak his mind, even to Conrad—just rarely.
Regardless, such impudence could only persist with the Primarch's allowance. To Conrad, it was an affront. Fujimaru Ritsuka, however, merely sighed:
"You're right, Sevatar. I have been too merciful to Nostramo."
A ripple of tension passed through the bridge—no sounds, but Conrad smelled approval, confusion, and fear. By this realm's rules, the girl-Primarch should share his gifts. She must have sensed it too, yet she offered no justification.
Instead, she turned to the vast observation window, where Nostramo hung in the void—a festering jewel veiled in false prosperity. After a silent moment, she spoke:
"I was naïve. I thought order alone would birth justice in its people. I forgot how deeply culture roots itself, how easily humans rot in filth. My error. I'll correct it."
"So you'll give it another chance," Sevatar sneered. "Even now, knowing the cost of mercy, you're still merciful."
"Don't exaggerate, Sevatar. The consequences are regrettable, but hardly 'disastrous.'"
"—This is the third time! Just the ones I know of!" Sevatar's voice burned with fury. "I wasn't among the first to join your Legion, but even I see it!"
Conrad's brows furrowed. Sevatar rarely showed emotion this raw. Yet here he was—enraged.
It took Conrad a microsecond to parse why: A mortal's gentleness could never curb Nostramo's rot. Rebellions, betrayals, half-hearted compliance—they must have festered beneath the surface, poisoning the Legion.
The outburst stirred the Atramentar. Some moved to restrain their First Captain, but the Primarch stopped them:
"Let him speak. His anger is just—proof he remains human. As both a Night Lord and Nostramo's victim, he earned this rage. It's not his alone; it's the Legion's voice. As Nostramo's ruler and your Primarch, I will bear it."
"What more is there to say? You know!" Sevatar's roar escalated with permission. "Again and again! New recruits tainted by scum, veterans forming factions, Nostraman-born and Terran-born at each other's throats—and that's just the surface! The远征 (crusade) stalls, your attention diverted by preventable filth—"
"—I understand." Fujimaru Ritsuka closed her eyes, pain and resignation mingling. "My failure. I've made the Legion doubt—"
"—You are not at fault, Night's Star!" Sevatar's bellow contradicted his own accusations, stunning all present—including Conrad. "You gave laws! You punished crimes! You tore out the roots of corruption! You brought hope to eternal night! Your will and justice spread across the stars—dozens of worlds under our rule prove your mercy is no flaw! You kept every oath, failed none of us! But Nostramo—Nostramo has failed you!"
The outburst seemed to drain Sevatar. The Terminator-clad giant swayed but steadied himself, switching to Nostraman—a language of hissed consonants that turned his whisper into a death rattle:
"End it."
Silence followed. Whether from Sevatar's heresy or the raw anguish in his words, none could say.
Then, Fujimaru Ritsuka replied hoarsely:
"I'm not sure I can do it this time, but I'll try—"
"—I mean end it." Sevatar's voice was faint but ironclad. "Permanently."
"What?"
"Look around. Half the Eighth Legion's fleet orbits Nostramo." Agony and cruelty warred in his tone. "We even brought Cyclonic torpedoes."