Chapter 66: The Truth of the World
"Take a look! Take a look, my brothers!"
Erebus's voice rang out with manic enthusiasm as he gestured wildly. The chamber fell into a stunned silence.
Lorgar stood rigid, his face drained of color. Magnus the Red, despite his towering crimson presence, looked distinctly uncomfortable. Horus Lupercal, the Warmaster himself, had gone pale. For several long seconds, he simply stared, unable to speak. The revelation had struck him like a blow from a power maul.
"He… he is not in his right mind," Magnus muttered, attempting to salvage the situation.
"A mere jokester," Lorgar added weakly, his voice strained.
"Yes, I can attest to that," Magnus said quickly, stepping forward. He did not want Erebus to leave a permanent stain upon Horus's opinion of the Word Bearers. "His tongue sometimes outruns his wisdom."
"But this…" Horus began, then faltered. As the Emperor's favored son, he had spent the last two days in close counsel with his father on Terra. The Emperor had seemed… different. Calmer. More present. Almost paternal in a way Horus had rarely experienced. It had been a balm to the Warmaster's soul.
And now this.
Horus did not want a single ill-chosen phrase from Erebus to poison that fragile renewal.
"Perhaps a slap would set him straight?" Lorgar offered, producing a coiled neural whip from his robes with disturbing readiness.
"My apologies, brother," Erebus said, bowing slightly toward Horus. "I suggest you keep a tighter leash on your more outspoken sons."
"That is my brother you speak of," Lorgar corrected sharply. "We are all the Emperor's sons. Sheepdogs of the Imperium, yes—but brothers still."
"Perturabo's brother?" Horus's voice rose. He had met the Lord of Iron on several occasions, yet Perturabo had never once mentioned a blood-sworn brother serving among the Word Bearers. Even Magnus appeared unusually invested in defending the man. And Angron — the ever-raging Red Angel — had remained strangely quiet.
Horus drew a deep breath, centring himself.
Let it pass. It must pass.
"He is Perturabo's sworn brother, yes," Magnus explained carefully, choosing his words with uncharacteristic diplomacy. "There was… an unfortunate disagreement regarding the care of their elderly father. It is a delicate matter."
"I forgive his rudeness," Horus declared at last, though the words tasted like ash. He would come to regret that mercy.
Malcador the Sigillite released Erebus from his invisible grip, though not before issuing a stern warning. "Should you speak out of turn again, chaplain, I shall dump the entirety of Terra's remaining administrative burden upon your shoulders. And I have already delegated seventy percent of it."
Erebus bowed deeply. "My deepest apologies, Lord Horus. In truth, I come bearing the Emperor's own command—to reveal to you the truth of this world."
A cold dread settled in Horus's gut.
The truth? What truth?
Malcador sighed inwardly. He had not been fully briefed, but he knew enough. Summoning daemonic forces upon Terra's soil was an unspeakable risk, even if only a handful of Primarchs bore witness. Still… better a few than all of humanity.
"This knowledge is reserved for the Primarchs alone," Erebus continued solemnly. "I ask only that you accept with stoic hearts the calamity that now threatens the Imperium. Once you have seen—"
"Wait, Erebus!" Angron bellowed suddenly, his massive frame tensing.
"You are not about to do that, are you?"
A terrible premonition gripped the World Eaters' Primarch. Erebus was insane on the best of days. He did not want to discover what the chaplain considered insane on a bad one.
"Yes," Erebus replied with grave sincerity.
Fulgrim's eyes narrowed with suspicion. "What are you all hiding?"
Lorgar hunched forward like a man awaiting execution. Angron shifted into a combat stance. Even Magnus wore a smile that could only be described as wicked.
"Run, Angron! Run!" Lorgar cried, raising his crozius and bolting for the chamber doors.
Magnus was faster. Psychic chains of shimmering crimson power lashed out, binding Lorgar mid-stride. The Urizen struggled furiously, but against the Cyclops of Prospero, resistance was futile.
"God-Emperor! Save me!" Lorgar wailed, staring longingly at the golden doors now mere meters away. Erebus had not warned him. The traitor had said nothing!
Angron raised his Butcher's Nails-fueled fists, but Horus stepped between him and Magnus.
"Brothers! What is the meaning of this?" the Warmaster roared. Internal division was the one thing he would not tolerate.
"Lorgar, I do not understand," Malcador said, bewildered. "You have done this before. The Emperor permitted it. Why flee now?"
"Run, Angron! Run for your life!" Lorgar screamed, ignoring the Sigillite entirely.
"It is nothing serious," Erebus said lightly, trying to slip toward the exit while attention was divided. "Merely a video."
He did not make it far.
Lorgar lunged like a rabid dog, sinking his teeth into Erebus's thigh and refusing to let go. Angron hurled a priceless Terran vase at Magnus in a desperate bid for freedom, only to be dragged back by invisible telekinetic force.
Malcador watched the unfolding madness with growing alarm. What in the Emperor's name has the Master not told me? What image could provoke this?
Erebus drove an armored elbow into Lorgar's jaw, breaking the grip. As Lorgar stared up in betrayed despair, Erebus reached for the door.
Only for Magnus to act.
With a flourish, the Thousand Sons Primarch produced an ornate data-slate and a crystalline recording orb. His single eye blazed with golden light—not the usual hue of his own power, but something deeper. Something touched by the Emperor's own authority.
"Take a look! Just one look, my brothers!"
Horus, Fulgrim, and Malcador surged forward to stop him.
Too late.
The false Emperor's borrowed might had already descended.
The lights died. The grand chamber plunged into darkness.
The pict-recording began to play.
"Yeah! Praise the Emperor! Joy! Perfection! This is the perfect moment!"
A voice—unmistakably familiar—echoed through the room, laced with ecstatic pleasure.
"Tight! It's coming! I want it out! Kahaban baby! So good! Praise the Emperor!"
The sky itself seemed to collapse upon the gathered demigods.
Lorgar let out a sound no Primarch should ever make. Angron's roar died in his throat. Horus's golden features froze in abject horror. Fulgrim's perfect face twisted in revulsion. Even Malcador, the ancient statesman who had seen ten thousand years of secrets, looked visibly shaken.
In the flickering light of the accursed recording, Magnus's smile was wide, terrible, and utterly unrepentant.
"Take a look, my brothers," he whispered once more, voice dripping with dark delight. "Just one little look…"
(End of Chapter)
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