Chapter 17: Lorgar, You Would Not Wish to Be Denied the Throne of Faith
"God-Emperor of Mankind… I am Your most faithful servant.
I am Your most obedient lamb."
"Lord Erebus—please! Release me! Send me back into the warp!
The Prince of Excess is wrong. I renounce Him! I will do anything—anything at all! I beg you!"
Shaeluna's voice had long since lost coherence. What remained was a raw, desperate parody of devotion.
Lorgar did not look up.
He knelt at a lectern of black stone, carefully inscribing notes into a thick, hand-bound tome. His expression was calm, scholarly, almost serene.
Daemonic structure differs fundamentally from that of humanity.
They are warp-native entities, sustained by unreality.
Sustained existence in realspace requires anchoring, sacrifice, or constant psychic reinforcement.
He paused, then continued writing.
Subject Shaeluna demonstrates advanced instability.
Method: prolonged anchoring through ritual sacrifice and emotional provocation.
Result: cognitive collapse.
He did not write torture.
He did not write madness.
He wrote results.
Erebus had been thorough. Countless adherents—men and women already deemed spiritually impure—had been offered as anchors. Their deaths had bound Shaeluna tighter and tighter to reality.
She was no longer merely contained.
She was broken.
More troubling still, Lorgar and the senior clergy of Colchis had confirmed a secondary phenomenon: wherever Shaeluna was held, the taint of the warp seeped outward. Corruption radiated from her like heat from a forge.
For the weak-willed, it was fatal.
Four colossal statues of the God-Emperor surrounded her now, faceless and austere, each linked by chains etched with catechisms and prohibitions. The chamber itself was warded, layered with sigils, prayers, and doctrinal seals.
Even so, anchoring a warp entity in realspace was perilous. Contamination was always possible.
Shaeluna babbled now—rambling praises of the Emperor, denouncing Slaanesh, declaring her loyalty in shrill, incoherent tones.
Lorgar did not believe a word of it.
This, he understood at last, was temptation.
Warp entities could not be trusted. Their very presence was an act of corruption. Their forms—beautiful, monstrous, impossible—were blasphemies against human reason.
Had his faith been weaker, had his will not been tempered by absolute devotion, Lorgar knew the truth:
He would have fallen already.
Shaeluna, however, remained useful.
She was a living specimen. Proof. A lesson made flesh. Warp entities were exquisitely sensitive to human emotion, feeding on extremes of fear, devotion, hatred, and ecstasy.
At last, Lorgar understood what Erebus had meant.
The Emperor was a man.
And gods were lies.
Heavy footsteps echoed.
The chamber doors groaned open.
Lorgar looked up.
Erebus had entered.
The First Chaplain said nothing at first. His eyes moved slowly over Lorgar's form, searching for subtle signs—scales, unnatural growths, the faint shimmer of corruption.
Finding none, he inclined his head.
"Praise the Emperor," Erebus murmured. "You remain… unaltered."
"You were judging me," Lorgar said evenly.
Erebus did not deny it.
"That is good," he replied. "Vigilance preserves us."
Lorgar closed the book.
"If the day comes," he said quietly, "when I stray—when I become compromised—I expect you to end me with your own hand."
Erebus's voice was cold as iron.
"I would not hesitate."
Lorgar smiled faintly.
He found that reassuring.
Erebus turned his gaze to the chained daemon.
"What shall we do with it?" he asked.
Lorgar watched Shaeluna convulse, whispering broken prayers.
"I see no clear path," he admitted.
"Then allow me to suggest one," Erebus said.
"We banish her. Then we summon her again. Repeatedly."
Lorgar turned sharply.
"…Why?"
"Daemons are immortal," Erebus replied. "They cannot truly die. But they can be revealed. The faithful must see what these so-called gods truly are."
"With you and I overseeing the rites," he continued, "the risk is acceptable."
Something twisted in Lorgar's chest.
Summoning daemons. Dissecting them. Studying them.
Was this truly service to the Emperor—or had he become no better than the cultists he despised?
Then he noticed Erebus's expression.
Not zeal.
Not pleasure.
Sorrow.
"If we do not soil our hands," Erebus said quietly, "who will? Would you rather leave this burden to lesser men?"
He paused.
"You would not wish the future of the faith—its highest office—to fall into unworthy hands, would you?"
Lorgar stiffened.
The throne of faith.
The voice of doctrine.
The one who would guide humanity's worship.
He despised himself for how deeply the words struck.
He rose.
"Titles do not matter," Lorgar said. "Tell me what must be done."
Erebus inclined his head.
"Daemons claim to feel neither pain nor fear," he said. "We shall test that. We will force her to summon lesser entities. We will destroy them before witnesses. The truth must be made undeniable."
"We will be the first to bear this knowledge," he finished softly.
"And the first to shoulder its cost."
He spoke of legacy.
Of history.
Lorgar took the blade from the table.
He walked toward the chained daemon.
"You filth," he roared, faith and fury colliding. "I will end you!"
Shaeluna looked up at him.
For a brief moment—just one—her expression was serene.
Yes, she thought.
Please.
Praise the Emperor.
The Colchis Crusade did not halt.
But it changed.
Military action continued against the Old Faith, yet the most fervent reformists withdrew from the front lines. They had discovered a new method of devotion.
The deception of daemons.
Under Erebus's guidance, they developed forced summonings, sacrificial bindings, and emotional lures—rituals powered by fear, grief, and fanatic belief.
Jarulek, Dark Apostle and chronicler, would later write:
All this was achieved through the wisdom of His Holiness and the Messenger of the Emperor.
More unsettling discoveries followed.
When the faithful invoked the God-Emperor, a faint golden radiance manifested.
When they spoke of the Emperor as a god, the light intensified—harsh, radiant.
When they invoked the Master of Mankind, the glow softened, turning pale and white.
Lorgar wept when he saw it.
This was proof.
His path was correct.
Within weeks, the daemon registry expanded from one subject—Shaeluna—to seven.
Each was personally overseen by Lorgar.
Each was studied.
Each was destroyed, their forms collapsing back into unreality.
Half a month passed.
Cold winds swept across Colchis.
Lorgar stood beside Erebus, gazing at the horizon.
"My brother," he said. "Unite Colchis. As you told me—we are weak. Too weak to be worthy of the Emperor."
"There are heretics yet unbroken," Erebus replied. "Shall we correct that?"
Lorgar's eyes burned.
"Yes."
"As you command," Erebus said, bowing slightly. "Your Holiness."
Lorgar coughed sharply.
"Do not call me that. Not yet. Say nothing."
He would not be ensnared again.
Erebus smiled.