The malice of the future gradually faded, but Curze alone knew — the other had marked him, noted this moment, and was simply waiting for him to lower his guard and return.
"I... I am well, brother."
His psychic energy settled once more. Curze's rigid frame finally relaxed.
"What did you see, Curze?" Nyx's voice was low.
Curze's foresight was less a gift of prophecy and more an affliction — he experienced every future that might come to pass, and the damage incurred in those visions rebounded upon his flesh in the present.
A prophecy capable of wringing such agony from a Primarch...
Nyx still remembered the vile psychic resonance he had sensed radiating from Curze. Even he had found it abhorrent.
"The same as... always."
Curze did not speak truth. He did not know how to explain it to Nyx — how could he tell the brother who trusted him that, in the future, he would become an enemy of the Imperium?
He could not speak of it. He was not yet mad. He could not bear to face his brother with such knowledge. Not yet. For now, he remained loyal to the Emperor.
Curze's expression smoothed once more. He took Nyx's outstretched hand and rose. The warmth and radiance emanating from his brother brought him discomfort — he was accustomed to darkness, to cold.
This was not a physical rejection, but a psychological one. The same aversion that would one day afflict the majority of the Night Lords with photosensitivity.
"You should not be here, brother," Curze murmured.
"My prophecies... have grown uncertain because of you."
"This feeling... it is... remarkable...?"
His psychic energy had grown sluggish. Curze realised, with dawning wonder, that his foresight was becoming controllable — tempered by Nyx's very existence.
"I cannot explain certain things. All I can say is... trust in the Emperor."
Though the Emperor is unreliable in small matters... in great ones... marginally dependable, perhaps?
"So, brother. Will you join us?"
Nyx was still extending his hand to Curze. But the 'Batman' had always walked alone.
"No. I shall walk the path of judgement with my own righteousness... but I will heed your counsel, brother."
Curze stepped back into the darkness. Before departing, he offered Nyx a final warning:
"This world is changing. A change that was never meant to occur. And at least one gaze from the Throne has taken notice."
—Knock Away: Don't say that!—
"Thank you for the warning, brother."
Curze's voice echoed through the mine. Then he was gone, swallowed utterly by shadow. Yet the faint trace of kindness he had shown before his departure left Nyx with the impression that Curze had... changed, somehow.
How presumptuous... Is this simply what Primarchs are like?
Outside the mine, over a dozen thugs from the Iron Fist gang, armed with modified autoguns, lounged about in idle conversation. This was the response team sent to investigate.
"How long's the boss been in there? Why ain't he out yet?" One thug slumped against a heap of scrap, bored senseless. The underhive was even worse than the lower levels; he just wanted to return to habitable territory.
"Maybe the boss wanted to... sample the merchandise first..." Another thug leered, crude remarks spilling from his lips, drawing laughter from his comrades.
"Reckon the old man can handle that ki—"
Bang!
His skull was punched through before he could finish. A ragged crater exploded from the back of his head. The thugs who had been laughing moments ago paid the price for their loose tongues.
It happened so fast. Before the others could react, more shots rang out.
Bang. Bang. Bang!
Bullets struck each remaining thug with surgical precision and ruthless efficiency. The Company Captain, wielding a battered modified autogun, had single-handedly exterminated the Iron Fist response team.
How dare you insult the Great Space King — you have already earned your death!
The skirmish ended in seconds. The Captain's decisive action roused the spirits of the watching workers. Most had suffered under the boot of gangers their entire lives. Now, their resolve to follow Nyx hardened further.
"Report to the Space King — all hostiles eliminated."
The Captain stood before Nyx and rendered a formal warcult salute. His expression was eager, hungry for the Space King's personal commendation.
"Well done, my son."
Nyx's praise suffused the Captain with elation. The three-hundred-pound warrior was as giddy as a child.
Veterans of a hundred wars, and we're reduced to butchering hive scum?
"Captain. Have the men scavenge anything useful. Equipment, ammunition — anything we can carry."
The majority of the rebellion's 'army' was composed of the old, the frail, the infirm. Most had spent their scant youth in the mines. The entire force boasted barely a dozen genuinely combat-capable men — and even they were far from sufficient to overthrow the noble houses that dominated Nostramo.
"Soldiers. Our next destination is Hive City. The Iron Fist fortress will be the first target of our resistance."
The mining sector where Nyx currently operated fell under the direct jurisdiction of the Iron Fist gang. According to the workers, this syndicate — several hundred strong — was considered middling at best within the underhive. Their primary function was transporting ores, such as excavated adamantium, to higher-tier criminal organisations.
The march towards Hive City proved far smoother than Nyx had anticipated. Perhaps it was the shift change; the rebels' passage drew little attention.
Yet Nyx was acutely aware that the disappearance of the Iron Fist response team would soon be noted. They needed to strike before the enemy learned of their presence.
"Chestnut. You are responsible for instructing the non-combatant rebels in basic medical triage."
"Captain. You will lead the assault. Our soldiers must learn — must grow accustomed to war."
Nyx issued these two commands in succession. He left behind those workers utterly unfit for combat. The remainder — those who could still raise a weapon — would experience the baptism of blood and fire firsthand.
Though he could, alone, annihilate the entire Iron Fist syndicate, Nyx understood his purpose here was not to coddle. It was to teach these men to fight for themselves — to truly stand upright.
Deep within the cluttered warrens of the underhive, shipments of refined ore were steadily conveyed into the Iron Fist fortress. Yet compared to previous days, today's deliveries were notably diminished.
Opposite the fortress, the Captain led several dozen rebels in silent observation.
"Five sentries on the perimeter. Three heavy stubber emplacements..."
The Captain meticulously studied the Iron Fist defences. Beside him, he heard the sharp, shallow breaths of the men — one after another. Fresh converts from the mines, they could not help but tremble. Yet not a single one flinched.
Many among them had seen their families shattered by the gangs. Their hatred for the syndicates was a cold, steady anchor, keeping their grips firm upon their rifles.
"Await my order. When we move, you fire upon any target you see. Understood?"
"Yes, my lord!"
Gazing upon these youths about to set foot upon the battlefield for the first time, the Captain felt the war-fires kindle in his chest. Yet Nyx had commanded him to safeguard them only to the extent absolutely necessary. The Captain could not simply annihilate every ganger himself.
Ten minutes passed. The flow of ore-laden haulers outside the Iron Fist fortress slowed to a trickle. The patrolling thugs grew lax; some even yawned openly.
"Now!"
The Captain burst from cover. Three shots rang out — three gunners slumped lifeless over their heavy stubbers.