Chapter 63: This Is Not the Emperor
Crack!
The sharp report echoed through the vaulted chamber of the Imperial Palace.
In the grand, dimly lit hall—its golden walls etched with the history of mankind—Erebus hung suspended in the air, bound tight by psychic force. His limbs jerked violently as Magnus the Red lashed him again, though this time with restrained strength.
Even restrained, it was more than enough.
Not far from the spectacle, Horus Lupercal, Primarch of the Luna Wolves, sat beside his brothers—Lorgar Aurelian of the Word Bearers and Fulgrim, the Phoenician. At the center of them all sat the Master of Mankind Himself.
The Emperor.
Calm. Composed.
Pouring tea.
Golden light shimmered faintly around Him as He filled each cup with deliberate care, as though this were a peaceful gathering rather than an interrogation.
"Well then, Magnus," the Emperor said gently, "come. Have some tea."
Magnus paused.
The psychic bindings around Erebus flickered—and then vanished. Erebus spun once in midair before dropping awkwardly, barely catching himself as Magnus stepped away without another glance.
Magnus obeyed without hesitation, his earlier fury dissolving into quiet satisfaction as he approached.
Erebus, meanwhile, twisted his neck, disoriented.
Just as he thought it was over—
"Horus," the Emperor continued, raising his gaze, "would you like to try?"
The question hung in the air.
Horus stiffened.
For a moment, he hesitated. He didn't understand. This… this wasn't how the Emperor acted. Discipline, yes. Punishment, perhaps. But this strange, almost casual cruelty?
He glanced at Lorgar.
Lorgar's eyes were red—wet with unshed tears. Whatever passed between them was enough.
Horus exhaled softly. "No… Father. I'll sit with you instead."
He did not want to make enemies today.
"Horus."
The Emperor's voice cut through his thoughts.
"My lord," Horus replied immediately, turning.
"Thank you for your hard work, my son."
Silence.
Something broke.
Run.
Run, Horus.
That is not the Emperor.
That is something else.
Erebus's mind screamed, though his mouth could not move. Bound again—not by Magnus this time, but by something far subtler—he watched in mounting horror.
The Emperor… was smiling.
Warmly.
"Father…?" Horus began uncertainly.
"Drink your tea," the Emperor said softly.
"…Yes."
Horus obeyed automatically, lifting the cup and swallowing its contents without even checking the heat. It burned his throat—but he barely noticed.
Something was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
The Emperor had always cared—Horus knew that—but He never showed it. Not like this. Never like this.
"Tired, my son?" the Emperor asked.
"I am not tired."
"You are."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
Horus froze.
Before he could respond, the Emperor reached out and placed a hand over his.
"Horus… I was wrong."
The universe seemed to stop.
Wrong?
The Emperor?
Impossible.
Absurd.
Heretical, even.
Horus's breath caught in his chest.
"Father… what do you mean?"
The Emperor's expression dimmed. For a fleeting moment, He looked… human.
"My sons," he said, his voice low, heavy with something unfamiliar. "I burdened you with too much. I demanded everything—and gave nothing in return."
No one moved.
"I never spoke with you. Never truly saw you. My thoughts were consumed only by humanity's future… and in doing so, I failed you all."
The words fell like stones into a still ocean.
Ripples of disbelief spread through every Primarch present.
Magnus frowned.
Fulgrim's smile vanished.
Lorgar stared as if witnessing a miracle—or a blasphemy.
Erebus trembled.
Fake.
This is false.
This is not Him.
Horus suddenly raised his hand—
SMACK!
The sound of flesh striking flesh rang out as he slapped himself hard across the face.
Pain bloomed.
Reality remained.
He stared at the Emperor, breathing unevenly.
The face was the same.
The voice was the same.
The presence—
No.
Not the same.
Not at all.
"…Is this truly you?" Horus whispered.
For a moment, he felt like a child again.
Lost.
Uncertain.
Desperate.
"Well then," the Emperor said suddenly, rising to His feet as if nothing had happened. "Have you all eaten?"
The shift in tone was jarring.
Horus blinked, instinctively shaking his head.
"The body is the foundation of all endeavor," the Emperor continued, almost cheerfully. "Come. Let us dine properly. Tell me—what would you like to eat?"
He turned, already walking.
As he passed Erebus, His eyes flicked toward him.
There was pride in them.
Pride.
Erebus's stomach dropped.
This is not the Emperor.
This is something wearing His skin.
The Primarchs followed, uncertain but unable to refuse.
The doors closed behind them.
Silence returned.
The psychic bindings unraveled.
Erebus collapsed to the floor, gasping, his mind racing.
"I have… never seen Him like that," he muttered hoarsely.
A voice answered from the shadows.
"Nor have I."
Erebus looked up.
Malcador the Sigillite stood before him, leaning on his staff, ancient eyes unreadable.
"I have the distinct impression," Erebus said slowly, "that this is not the Emperor I know."
Malcador studied him.
"…It is because of you."
Erebus blinked. "Because of me?"
"The Emperor has placed His hopes—His wager—upon you."
Silence followed.
Then—
"…He's gone mad," Erebus said flatly.
Malcador did not disagree.
"The Master of Mankind has always been a gambler," he replied. "But you… You represent something unprecedented. A variable He has never accounted for."
Erebus frowned, considering.
"So… He's betting humanity's future on me?"
"Yes."
"…That's insane."
"Undeniably."
Malcador lowered his gaze briefly, as though recalling a private conversation.
"Do you not wish to retire?"
The memory lingered.
Then, the Sigillite straightened.
"I have heard," he continued, "that you founded an organization—the Inquisition."
Erebus nodded slowly.
"Good," Malcador said. "The Imperium needs such… methods."
He stepped closer, extending a hand.
"Tell me, Erebus. What do you require? Resources? Authority? Personnel?"
His voice deepened, laced with subtle psychic pressure.
"Name it. As Regent of Terra, I can provide anything."
Anything.
To any man, such an offer would be irresistible.
Power.
Control.
Dominion.
Erebus looked at him.
Paused.
Then said:
"How do we beat up the golden-skinned god?"
"…What?"
Malcador blinked.
For the first time in centuries—
He had miscalculated.
Then, slowly…
He began to laugh.
"Fascinating," the Sigillite murmured.
Perhaps the Emperor was right.
Perhaps the Imperium did not need more order.
More perfection.
More control.
Perhaps—
It needed something else.
Something dangerous.
Something unpredictable.
"Yes," Malcador said softly.
"The Imperium could use someone like you."
End of Chapter 63
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