[Magnus moved faster than you expected.]
[Even with one arm gone and the psionic smoke still rising from the wound, he snatched the grimoire from his waist and put distance between you in the same motion, retreating across the courtyard with the controlled urgency of someone executing a withdrawal rather than fleeing. He paused just long enough to look back at you, his one eye carrying a weight of hatred and something else beneath it, something that looked like it had been held a very long time, and then the teleportation spell assembled itself around him in the churning psionic air.]
[The three surviving Thousand Sons Astartes, their armor shattered and their wounds considerable, vanished alongside him in the same moment the spell discharged.]
[The courtyard went quiet.]
[You stopped your charge mid-stride, your heavy foot coming down on the cracked stone floor with a sound that echoed once across the lake and then was absorbed by the silence. You shook your head, the topknot swinging with the motion, and exhaled a long breath through your teeth.]
[Around you, the physical evidence of the fight was settling into the stillness: fractured stone, scattered fragments of crimson-energy spear, the dark marks where psionic discharge had scorched the walls. Your own face, which had been significantly rearranged by a Primarch-grade grimoire impact, was quietly finishing the process of putting itself back together, the blue scales receding from the repaired tissue as the damaged structures resolved.]
["You! The ridiculous one, standing there doing nothing! Come here!"]
[The voice came from the far side of the courtyard.]
[The old man in the black robes had gotten himself into a sitting position against a section of fallen masonry, one hand wrapped around an ancient scepter that had seen better centuries. His face was a map of age and current discomfort in roughly equal measure, and the instruction in his voice carried the authority of someone who had been issuing instructions that were obeyed for a very long time and had no particular expectation that this would be different.]
[You turned.]
[The blue scales were already fading as you walked toward him, the scythe limb and the bone spikes retracting back into the surface of your body with the same efficiency with which they had emerged. By the time you reached him, your frame was close to its baseline configuration, the mutations dormant.]
[You went down on one knee without deliberating about it.]
["Lord Regent," you said.]
[You had not needed to think about it. The identity of the old man in black robes had resolved the moment you saw his face clearly: Malcador the Sigillite, First Lord of Terra, the Emperor's only true confidant, the Regent of the Imperium of Man. The most capable political and administrative mind of the age, sitting on the courtyard floor of a Primarch's underground palace with a hole in his composure that looked like recent psionic impact.]
[David's massive form had moved closer while you were crossing the courtyard. He paused when he reached you, took in the situation, and lowered himself to one knee as well, the motion somewhat more deliberate given the scale of the body he was currently operating.]
[Malcador looked at the two of you for a moment, his expression doing something complicated. Then it resolved into something warmer.]
["Good boys. You worked hard. Call me Grandpa Ma — I am old enough to insist on it and stubborn enough to keep asking until you comply."]
["As you wish, Mr. Ma," you said, with an expression that acknowledged the instruction without committing to the title immediately.]
[Malcador's attention shifted to David.]
["Is this your companion? A loyal Man of Iron?" A slight pause, and then something that might have been wistfulness moved through his expression. "If I had encountered fortune like that earlier in my life, some of what followed might have gone differently." He looked at David directly. "Iron Regent. I did not come up with that title, you did — or rather, your master did. Regardless. You there: apply yourself to your master's service diligently. I am telling you directly. Is that understood?"]
[David's eyes cycled blue. He lowered his metal head toward Malcador in a slow, deliberate acknowledgment.]
[To receive the direct instruction of this particular old man was not a small thing. Both you and David understood that without needing to discuss it.]
[Malcador gripped his scepter and began the process of standing up.]
[You moved to help.]
["Out of my way. I can manage."]
[You withdrew your arm and held it in the air at a respectful distance, watching Malcador's thin frame work itself upright against the resistance of a body that had given more than it had left to give. He got there. It took a moment.]
[While his attention was occupied, your gaze moved across the courtyard to the woman who was lying motionless on the ground some distance away. You glanced at David. He was already moving.]
["All of you who managed to come back," Malcador said quietly, catching the motion from the corner of his eye. "Extraordinary children, every one."]
[He exhaled slowly.]
["Lord Regent," you said carefully. "If I am not mistaken, the Primarch-level body I have descended into..."]
["You already know the answer. Why are you asking me?"]
[He reached up and set his palm on your shoulder, which required a significant upward reach given the current difference in your heights, and held it there for a moment.]
["I cannot tell you everything. But for what you are about to face, you deserve to know the part I can give you."]
[He took a breath.]
["The owner of this body was searching for something that most people spend their lives pretending does not exist: power beyond the known ceiling, and the gene-seed to stabilize a Legion. In that pursuit, he found the remains of genetic engineering technology left behind by an ancient race. No one who was present for what happened next survived to give a full account. When he reappeared, he had remade himself from the inside out using what he had found — not enhanced, not augmented, but transformed into something that was no longer entirely human."]
[A pause.]
["If you find yourself in a situation you cannot resolve with what you currently have, consume the dead on the battlefield around you. Try to reach what is buried deepest in this body. It may produce results you would not otherwise have access to. The consequences of doing so are yours to carry."]
[He removed his hand from your shoulder.]
["That is what I can tell you about him."]
[He was quiet for a moment, his gaze moving somewhere beyond you, to a point that was not in the courtyard.]
["From the moment you appeared here, I understood that the plans I have worked toward for so long are proceeding along their intended course. The conjecture that I have held longest, the one I was least certain of, appears to be moving in the right direction. We have all paid prices that I do not have adequate words for. But the Imperium continues. I simply..." He paused. "...will likely not be present to see where it arrives."]
[You opened your mouth.]
[He raised his hand.]
["I know what you intend to say. There are things that must be done regardless of what we want. She — in her grief and her anger — destroyed the true owner of this body. That is done and cannot be undone. And we are not operating with the luxury of time."]
[He straightened slightly, the scepter taking some of the weight, and his eyes found yours with the full attention of a man who was very old and very tired and had chosen, one more time, not to be finished yet.]
["If this is a game of kings against kings, generals against generals, then we are in the final moves now. This is my final game. It is her final game as well."]
[You thought: but this is not your final chapter.]