"Here they come."
Perturabo smiled crookedly, which piqued even the existentially-shaken Magnus's curiosity.
"What's coming, brother?"
Perturabo didn't answer. He simply pressed his hand down on Magnus's shoulder — and then a twisted, malevolent scene materialized before Magnus.
He couldn't make out what it was. He could only see a flash of red radiance and deep blue light crashing against each other in a deadlock, while off to the side a mass of grey-black luminescence occasionally stabbed itself into the blue.
"What are those things?"
Perturabo gave no explanation. He simply poured more power into his psychic output.
Magnus found his witch-sight growing clearer and clearer. Things that would once have cost him enormous effort to perceive now revealed themselves plainly to his gaze.
But when he watched the two abstract, colossal entities begin trading blows before him, he still felt an unnatural stabbing pain in his eyes.
The entire Warp shuddered from the violence of their clash.
Endless daemon armies hurled themselves at one another. From Khorne's side alone, uncountable Bloodletters and Flesh Hounds poured down from above in an unbroken tide.
But what frightened Magnus most of all was that blue silhouette — the one whose gaze kept drifting toward him.
Magnus couldn't find words for the sensation. There was something in that attention — a tangible hatred combined with a feverish excitement at change — that left the entity both contradictory and exhilarated, so much so that even as a portion of Its form was being claimed by the red radiance, It still stretched tendrils of power toward Magnus, still reaching to take him away.
Magnus instinctively stepped back twice. The colour of his body began shifting rapidly, cycling through shades. Only when he saw a blue-hued sceptre caught and blocked by the enormous shield beside him did Magnus begin to properly watch the battle unfolding ahead.
"What's the matter? Afraid to face the creator of your paradise?"
Perturabo said with a teasing smirk. The Daemonic Forge's countless mechanical arms were also indirectly interfering with Tzeentch, wearing the entity down until It struggled to keep pace with Khorne.
Its own domain had begun to destabilise. The depths of the Crystal Labyrinth were gradually being overrun. Lords of Change began fleeing in every direction, only to be wrenched back by Tzeentch's forcible grip.
It knew there was no reclaiming Magnus today — nor, perhaps, ever again. But It had run out of options, and having now sensed the presence of the Fat One and the Vile One, It understood: if It didn't withdraw now, It would suffer even greater losses shortly.
Tzeentch retracted Its authority and began pulling Its power inward. It slipped past Khorne's leaping cleave, then cast a final cold sneer toward the still-watching Magnus — and departed laughing, Its laughter echoing through the Warp: "All according to plan."
But just as Khorne roared in search of enemies to vent Its fury upon, and as Nurgle and Slaanesh turned to leave, finding nothing left to gain here — a great blade wreathed in golden fire blazed in from nowhere and cut Tzeentch off mid-flight, stopping It dead in its tracks.
Now.
Perturabo held nothing back. Endless mechanical arms swept in from every direction. Khorne snatched up Its great sword and chainaxe and charged headlong. Slaanesh thrust upward from below with a slender rapier, aiming to run Tzeentch through from underneath. Nurgle hurled a great cauldron of boiling broth, that vast, sluggish form suddenly erupting into startling speed as It charged in swinging an enormous mace.
The most brutal blow of all came from the Emperor. Golden fire rained directly down upon Tzeentch from overhead, sealing off every escape route above.
Magnus watched, tears of blood running freely from his eyes — but he did not close them. He desperately needed to know the fate of that twisted blue silhouette.
Without Perturabo's aid, however, the vision before him became impossible to maintain. Even with his considerable psychic strength, observing a battle of this magnitude at his current level was simply beyond him.
In the end, Magnus exhausted every drop of his psychic reserves. He heard, faintly, a single pitiful, desolate bird's cry — and then he collapsed into unconsciousness.
When Magnus came to, he found himself still inside the pyramid aboard his own ship, the Photep, surrounded by those forbidden tomes. His brother Perturabo sat nearby, idly browsing through some of the books Magnus had collected, sipping Baal wine with evident satisfaction.
"Awake?"
Every bone felt ready to come apart. His eyes blazed with agony. Even his mind was heavy with deep exhaustion. Through all of it, Magnus heard his brother's somewhat playful words.
"Still believe what you saw? Still think there are friendly beings inside the Warp? Still feel like exploring it whenever you please?"
Magnus was badly weakened. His towering red form seemed somehow translucent, almost insubstantial. He had no desire to discuss this topic with his brother right now. What he had witnessed before losing consciousness had completely demolished his understanding of the world.
"How long has it been, brother?"
He managed to ask.
"Three days. Your sons came and questioned me — and when they saw you like this they actually tried to attack me. I'll admit I respect them for that. Don't they know who I am? Who gave them the courage to charge at a Primarch?"
Perturabo's words made Magnus's chest clench. His breathing quickened.
"You didn't hurt them, did you, brother? They were only—"
"I know. I just knocked them out. And I dealt with those so-called little 'sprites' while I was at it. A perfectly good Legion, and instead of thinking about how to reclaim human worlds and purge xenos, they spend their days knee-deep in Warp nonsense. Father's an idiot, and the sons are idiots — not a shred of caution between the lot of them."
"If it hadn't been for me and the Emperor this time, you could have all sat back and waited to be twisted into those grotesque, hideous shapes, spending the rest of eternity as their dogs and slaves. They could put a leash on you and have you heeling lower than the most degraded mutant slave in the bottom dregs of the Imperium."
But Magnus had barely registered the mocking. Something in Perturabo's words had caught his attention entirely.
"Father came too?"
"That golden flame — you didn't see it?"
Magnus recalled the scene. That was precisely the great blade wreathed in golden fire that had seared his eyes so badly, accelerating his psychic exhaustion beyond measure.
"That was… Father?"
Magnus was stunned. Father actually had the power to contend with those entities?
"What are those beings, exactly?"
He asked it. He needed to know — and deep inside, a flicker of that old exploratory hunger stirred to life again. In pursuit of all knowledge and truth, he had always been willing to cast aside his own safety and go wherever the trail led.
Even if what lay ahead was a bottomless abyss that would leave nothing of him.
Watching the ferocious need to understand blazing in Magnus's eyes, Perturabo thought to himself that it was really no mystery at all why the Red Pony would one day cause a catastrophe beyond all reckoning.
"Magnus — did you not see the evil of those things?"
"So what are they, then? Brother, I want to know."
Magnus dragged his weakened body upright and moved to sit beside Perturabo , reaching out a hand toward the wine glass — only to have Perturabo cover it and shoot him a sharp look, at which Magnus withdrew his hand with a slightly sullen air.
"Do you have even a scrap of self-awareness? There's nothing wrong with having a spirit of exploration and inquiry — but could you not explore with a little reverence? You plunge in without looking left or right. If you're not going to be the one who gets played for a fool, who is?"
"Right, I understand, so those beings—"
Crack.
Perturabo, ever short-tempered, had reached the absolute limit of his patience. He punched Magnus clean off his feet. The Red Pony lost consciousness again.
When Magnus came around for the second time, the environment around him had changed again. Noisy sounds battered at his skull, making his already-splitting head ring even worse.
He forced his eyes open with great difficulty and found himself in an extremely bright, transparent space. Countless Mechanicum adepts moved back and forth around him, hauling and transporting things.
Vast numbers of mortal auxiliary troops stood at their posts. Even Titan Legions — rare to encounter on most occasions — were visible throughout.
Nearby Custodians noticed he'd awakened and said nothing, simply giving a calm nod in a forward direction before departing. A wave of red-armoured Thousand Sons immediately came surging toward him.
"Azek."
"Father, are you all right? How do you feel?"
"I'm fine. Where are we? What happened?"
He felt his sons' concern wash over him. He glanced once over the already-small number of his sons, then let out a slow breath and asked.
"This is Terra, Father. The Fourth Primarch brought us back. The Emperor has placed us under house arrest — we're forbidden from going anywhere. He wants us to fully resolve the gene-flaw problem first. He said when he has time, he'll work with the Biologis masters to help us address it."
Magnus sat with that for a moment, still a little dazed, thinking to ask more — but Malcador and the Emperor were already approaching from nearby.
Ahriman and the others respectfully cleared a path. And for reasons Magnus couldn't quite explain, the moment he saw the Emperor's deeply stormy expression, he was seized by an inexplicable guilty conscience.
"Fa—"
The word hadn't left his mouth. The Emperor blazed with golden light. His gilded armour materialized on his body in an instant. Without a single word to Magnus, he raised his enormous powered gauntlet and delivered a thundering backhand.
Malcador, from somewhere nobody had noticed, produced a walking staff. Psychic power surged over him. He swelled to match Magnus's own towering height and stepped in alongside the Emperor, joining the two-on-one.
Nearby, the Thousand Sons watched with hearts that felt like they were bleeding — but not knowing how to intervene, they could only stand there helplessly and stare.
The surrounding Custodians didn't spare a second glance. The Mechanicum adepts and mortals started slightly, then turned back to their work. Agonized cries drifted up from somewhere deep beneath the Terran Palace.
But the Administratum officials moving busily through the rest of the Palace went about their business as always. All of Terra remained calm and unruffled.
Perturabo, by now, had already returned to his research into Necron technology. He had no spare attention for the Red Pony. If he himself couldn't solve the problem, then let the people who could deal with it step in.
The Emperor almost seemed to carry a built-in effectiveness bonus against every single Primarch. His emotional intelligence might be non-existent, but he and Malcador at least understood Magnus's importance well enough to know what they were doing.
Back inside the Iron Fortress, Perturabo stood frowning, a phase glaive in hand, stuck at a wall and somewhat irritated.
He'd forged phase blades of various kinds in the past, but they never quite measured up to Necron phase weaponry — the feeling of being technologically outclassed left Perturabo profoundly unsatisfied.
He set the phase glaive down and picked up a gauss flayer instead. Staring at it — this was a basic weapon issued to Necron standard units, practically the bottom rung of their arsenal — he felt a strangely helpless powerlessness.
His malevolence-craft, he realized, was nothing in front of these weapons.
Another day of Warp-craft getting hard-countered by real-universe high technology. It was discouraging.
He studied the dense array of Necron technology laid out before him — Dolmen Gates, Obelisks, Shard of the C'tan dimensional cages—
These big pieces Perturabo couldn't even find a starting thread on. It was almost impossible to imagine how powerful humanity must have been during the Golden Age, back when they could nearly match the Necrons at their peak and still contend against the Eldar empire in its own height of glory.
Humanity had developed so rapidly in that brief window — yet Perturabo, a Primarch, walking the same road that had once been walked before, could find no breakthrough. He hadn't even managed to develop his Abominable Intelligence to particularly high levels of sophistication.
Perturabo also feared repeating the mistakes of the Golden Age.
But it made no sense. If the humans of that era could do it, there was no reason he couldn't.
He must be missing something crucial, he decided. Something he'd overlooked.
He had plenty of time. He could grind away at it. He refused to believe these Necron weapons were beyond him. The Necrontyr themselves had been short-lived mortals, hadn't they? And they'd managed it. He would grind it out if he had to — piece by piece, bit by bit!
In any other field, Vulkan would have been the natural choice for this kind of work. But unfortunately, Vulkan was currently at a critical juncture in his Webway research and couldn't spare a hand.
No matter. Perturabo would grind it out himself.
"Ahhh!"
The Emperor hoisted Magnus into the air, then brought his back crashing down across a raised knee. There was a sharp crack — and Magnus's spine snapped cleanly.
Malcador's staff came down squarely on Magnus's head in the same moment. The Red Pony blacked out once more.
The enormous Ogryn-sized figure, beaten every shade of purple from head to toe, sank into pained unconsciousness.
The Thousand Sons on the sidelines immediately came rushing forward. They scooped up their father and burst into anguished sobbing.
Malcador returned to his normal size and produced a silk handkerchief from somewhere, calmly wiping the blood from his hands. The Emperor's previously explosive fury began, at last, to gradually settle.
This time he'd nearly had someone break into his house, so to speak. But at least he'd extracted something substantial from that Blue Bird in the process, so it hadn't been a complete loss. At the very least, Tzeentch would be quiet for a good while now.
"Revelation," the Emperor said, "you need to move faster. I suspect Magnus isn't the only one — the other Primarchs are likely being watched as well. Especially the ones we haven't found yet. I believe they've already begun to act."
The Emperor's brow furrowed. The Webway construction had hit its own impasse, and the Great Crusade was at a critical juncture — he couldn't extract himself from either. He was caught squarely between two urgent demands.
He was ultimately only one person, and dividing himself between both fronts was proving increasingly difficult.
The Great Crusade couldn't stop. The Webway was paramount. Even with Perturabo supplying resources at full capacity — ossified materials and raw components arriving in near-constant flow — even with the Imperium levying heavy taxation from every conquered world, the Webway's progress remained painfully slow.
He suddenly found himself wanting to offload the burden of the Crusade. But the Great Crusade had only barely gotten under way — only the Eastern Fringe had shown any real momentum, while vast swathes of other sectors remained unconquered. Withdrawing now was too premature.
And besides, not all the Primarchs had been found yet. Chaos had practically put its cards on the table and begun openly contesting him. Everything seemed to move in the wrong direction at once, and time was running out. The Emperor felt the irritation rising in him again.
He looked toward Magnus and nearly felt the urge to give him another round — but ultimately restrained himself.
"Malcador. Do you think I should bring things to a conclusion sooner rather than later? I'm thinking—"
"No. You can step back from the Crusade somewhat, but you cannot hand over power this quickly. At least not until all the Primarchs have returned. You cannot do it yet."
Malcador shut the idea down.
"But you know the situation. I can barely spare the attention to manage both fronts at once — the Webway alone gives me enough of a headache."
"But you need to understand — the First-Returned has nowhere near sufficient prestige at present. Russ and Ferrus will never accept him, and Guilliman is making his move. The Lord of Iron — I don't need to spell it out, do I? Even the Mechanicum takes orders from him now. Across the entire Imperium, his prestige is second only to yours."
"Directly anointing Horus won't work. It would do nothing except deepen their rivalries."
I am the Emperor. I anoint whoever I please.
He had very nearly said it. But the way Malcador's staff was angling in a distinctly threatening direction made him swallow the words instead.
"If only Erda were still here. We probably wouldn't need to worry about any of this."
"You're the one who drove her away. What's the use of saying that now?"
The Emperor had nothing to say to that. Even now, truthfully, he didn't feel he'd done anything wrong. Why did these old friends keep leaving him, one after another?
The one he resented most was that damned Eldar witch. Without her, the Great Crusade wouldn't have been made nearly so difficult.
"So what do I do now? I can't keep going like this. The Webway cannot wait — and nobody knows when Chaos will begin its full offensive. My sons are already being targeted. What they'll do next time, we don't know."
"We're on the back foot, Malcador. We need someone who can take my place and lead the Expedition fleets and the Legions in continuing the Crusade."
"You know as well as I do — only a Primarch can carry that weight. And no one is more suitable than the First-Returned."
Watching the Emperor's blatant, barely-concealed favouritism, Malcador didn't even want to comment.
He's already decided. Fine. Let him have his predetermined conclusion — at least Malcador wasn't going to publicly embarrass him over it.
"We can begin letting word out. Word that you intend to step back, that around 900.M30 you will relinquish the position of Crusade Commander. At that point, I expect the Primarchs who wish to contend for it will begin making their moves."
"It will come down to who can bring the others around. Even if they can't fully convince each other — as long as they can arrive at a compromise, someone all of them can grudgingly accept, that will suffice."
"If Horus can't even manage that much, I'd say even if you spoon-fed him the position, he wouldn't be able to hold it."
The Emperor considered this for a moment, then gave a slow nod of agreement.
But the way the Emperor's eyes were already moving — darting and scheming — made it plain that he was already thinking of ways to quietly tip the scales in his favourite son's favour. Malcador felt a familiar wave of resignation wash over him.
Honestly, the man's flaws were endless — emotional intelligence of a stone wall, perpetual double standards, shameless when cornered...
If Malcador hadn't been completely out of other options back then, and if this particular golden-skinned fellow's psychic charisma hadn't been so extraordinarily potent, and his capabilities so genuinely astounding — Malcador would absolutely never have brought him back into the world. And even now, Malcador was deeply regretting it.
The following day, word spread from Terra: after 900.M30, the Emperor would relinquish the position of Crusade Commander, and a Primarch would be elevated to the rank of Warmaster to lead the Expedition fleets in his stead.
The announcement sent shockwaves across the Imperium. Everyone understood — the Imperium was about to change. A transfer of power was beginning. The jockeying had started.
Legions of officials began placing heavy bets on their preferred Primarchs. Even the oldest noble houses of Terra sprang into motion — this was no time to sit and watch.
Primarchs carried rights of succession. The Emperor and the Regent had made their meaning clear enough: the Warmaster's seat was almost certainly the position from which the next Emperor would emerge.
With only a few short decades remaining until 900.M30, if not now, then when? Could the fence-sitters and centrists really expect to still eat well once a Primarch had taken power? Or did they think they could hedge multiple bets, following whichever lord looked most promising?
Did they think this was ancient Terra? Primarchs didn't play those games. The brotherhood between them was genuine — and if any Primarch caught wind of such calculated hedging, they were more likely to stop competing with each other first and simply have all the opportunists executed.
The frontrunner was obvious: Horus, the First-Returned. No question. He'd accompanied the Expedition forces through their most gruelling years, accumulated the most military honours, and the tax revenue from the worlds he'd reclaimed was enormous. His prestige across the Imperium was unmatched.
Second came Ferrus. He'd returned later than Horus, but his combat record was formidable, and his relationship with the Mechanicum was excellent — a worthwhile investment.
After that: Sanguinius and Guilliman. One was perfect in every sense. The other was a natural statesman, gifted with a warmth suited to governance. Neither had a weak record. Guilliman in particular had been openly displaying his ambitions even before Perturabo returned, and the number of worlds under his administration was growing by the day — well worth backing.
A few people put their money on darker horses. After all, every Primarch was technically in the running — what if the gamble paid off? And even a losing bet wasn't without value. Any Primarch was worth serving.
But nobody dared bet on Perturabo. Because the moment the announcement went out, the Martian Mechanicum had dropped all pretence. They essentially declared outright that Perturabo was the next Warmaster. The forgeworlds — large and small — began issuing their own statements. They recognized only one Warmaster.
Was this treason? It certainly looked like it. Nobody dared put money on that. Even a commanding lead didn't mean you had to play it like that. This wasn't competing — this was openly seizing the throne.
The announcement of the Warmaster position left not only officials and the Mechanicum unable to sit still — even the Primarchs and their Legions were stirred.
"Father, this Warmaster position is yours and yours alone. Is there any Primarch better suited to it than you, the First-Returned?"
Abaddon stepped forward first. The several brothers of the Mournival around him nodded in agreement.
Torquatus, Syeonax, and Ashimander all nodded. None of them thought Abaddon was being rash this time.
The Warmaster position. Who wouldn't want it?
Horus telling himself he didn't want it — that would be a lie. But he also knew that openly going for it might breed resentment among his brothers. He knew it would put his father in a difficult position.
"Father, stop hesitating. Time is short. We need to accumulate enough military merit to secure the Warmaster position for you. As long as we work together, it will be yours!"
"Ezekyle — don't be rash."
Syeonax held Abaddon back.
"The Warmaster position is no small matter. We need to think this through carefully."
"Right, otherwise when the time comes—"
Torquatus and the others noticed that their father's expression was complicated and uncertain, and began encouraging him to steady his resolve.
Horus was rarely so indecisive. But this was different.
"Father, what do you think?"
Horus wanted the Emperor's guidance — the same guidance he'd felt in those thirty years after his return, the time in his life he found most impossible to forget.
Then, all at once, a flash of golden light passed through Horus's eyes. He blinked, momentarily startled. Abaddon and the others went pale with alarm, and were about to ask what had just happened — when Horus rose to his feet, his face carrying a confident smile and absolute resolve.
On Medusa, Ferrus likewise received word from Terra. He was in the midst of a strategic rest period, but the desire for the Warmaster position flickered plainly in his eyes.
His sons had already begun urging him to prepare — selecting suitable candidates from the clans to swell the Legion's numbers in readiness for the Crusade ahead.
Guilliman, upon hearing the news, felt the pull — but still reined in his more restless sons. What he truly wanted, in the end, was to carry forward the legacy of his foster father. War brought no more hope to people than was strictly necessary. The real importance lay in how well a world was governed, how well its people lived.
But he still let his sons begin selecting suitable children from the conquered worlds to join the Legion.
The Warmaster position — how could he be entirely indifferent? He was simply less fixated on it than others.
The Great Angel, still mid-Crusade, received the news as well and decided to make a push for it. His sons had suffered too much for too long. The Warmaster position would bring them greater honour.
Every Primarch who received the news reacted first with shock — and then found their sons already crowding in with advice and counsel.
Of those truly unmoved by the Warmaster position, there were only three: Russ, the Khan, and Magnus — who was currently confined to the Webway construction zone.
Russ heard the news, let out a loud laugh, and went straight back to drinking with his sons. He had always had a clear-eyed understanding of himself. This position wasn't his to touch, and he had no particular interest in it.
The Khan was the same. Having once been a ruler himself, he understood the poison that power carried — he'd always kept his distance from it. By nature he craved freedom, the open stars, the limitless void. The Warmaster's seat held no appeal for him.
Dorn did want it — but having already taken the role of Captain-General of the Custodian Guard, he'd effectively forfeited his claim, and his near-absolute loyalty to the Emperor left little room for independent ambition of that kind.
"What? You want to be Warmaster?"
Calas Typhon, working through Legion administrative matters, looked up as if he'd just heard something genuinely funny. His hands went still.
"You think I can't do it? Typhon, if I become Warmaster I can liberate more worlds, earn more respect from my brothers, and besides—"
Mortarion stopped himself. He wanted his father's praise. He didn't want to admit that out loud.
"Calas, don't speak about Father like that!"
Garro and the others standing nearby glared daggers at Typhon, furious at the mockery aimed at the Father they revered above all else.
But Calas was unbothered. Surveying this group of large, earnest men, he privately concluded that if it weren't for him, the Legion would eventually collapse.
"Fine, then. Tell me: how exactly are you going to take this position?"
"On merit? Don't make me laugh."
"On military record? Do you need me to spell out where you stand? What exactly are you going to bring to that comparison?"
"Or perhaps you're planning to go to the Emperor and explain that you've followed him faithfully for years, you've given everything, and now that Mortarion has returned, you've fought without losing a single engagement in the Tempestus sector — and therefore the Warmaster position is rightfully yours?"
"Go ahead. I won't stop you. If you feel your rhetoric isn't up to scratch, I can even write some talking points for you — every kind of argument you could want. I won't even take credit if it works. It's all yours."
"Well? Are you going?"
The sheer condescension of Typhon's words sent Garro and Vorx's blood pressure shooting upward — but they had no real rebuttal. They looked over at their father, who had once again retreated into himself, and could only stare resentfully at Calas sitting in the command seat before turning back to reason with their father.
Calas wasn't trying to crush their spirits. He just couldn't see how they were supposed to compete in this situation. If it hadn't been for the Lord of Iron's free sponsorship of a substantial quantity of resources, who knew how many more brothers they'd have lost in this Crusade.
Things were already difficult enough as it was. And yet they spent every day dreaming of things far out of reach. Did they know what they were actually working with?
Perturabo had made progress after all. He started with the Necrons' base material — living metal — and worked his way out from there. The sheer capability of the substance had, at one point, made him think it simply shouldn't exist in the physical universe.
What kind of metal could be repaired by a handful of scarab beetles rolling around over it?
But there it was, right in front of him. And he had now reverse-engineered it.
Gauss weaponry and phase weaponry had been successfully replicated as well.
Looking at the gauss flayer and phase glaive now in his hands — both fitting his grip almost perfectly — Perturabo allowed himself a moment of quiet satisfaction.
He uploaded the schematics and began preparing for mass production and Legion-wide deployment — at which point word from Terra finally reached Olympia, and Perturabo reluctantly set down his research, which had been on the verge of pushing further into other areas of Necron military technology.
The Iron Warriors, who had been in the midst of their disciplinary reformation, erupted immediately. His elder sister and younger brother were swept along with everyone else into the great hall. Representatives from the Steel Council of engineers and from the Eldar had come. Even the Votann Alliance from the deep rivers had sent delegates.
"Father! The Emperor has already issued the call — if we can reclaim more worlds in this window, the Warmaster position is yours without question!"
"Exactly! No Legion can match our record. We've provided nearly half the Imperium's resources. Our standing across the entire Imperium is equal to the First-Returned's."
"Father, stop waiting! Let us return to the Crusade! We'll bring you the Warmaster position — nobody will be able to stop us!"
"And once we have it, nobody can call us treacherous or over-ambitious again! With the Warmaster's seat, we'd be fully legitimate in the eyes of the Imperium. Even the Custodians wouldn't intimidate us!"
"Father, you are the true Warmaster of the Imperium!"
Watching the crowd of sons who had utterly failed to hold themselves together, Perturabo understood that all the reformation work of these recent months had barely scratched the surface. They were the same as before — perhaps their tempers and personalities had shifted slightly, by a fraction.
With the exception of Dantioch the Iron Smith and a handful of the selected Chaplains, every single son present was in a frenzy of excitement. Some had apparently already started thinking through what his powered armour trim would look like once he'd claimed the Warmaster position.
The Huscarl conversion surgery had been spreading to more of the sons — several thousand had completed the procedure by now. But far from making them more humble, it had made them more arrogant than ever.
As the crowd's discussion grew louder and more excited — as even the Squat and Beastman representatives began joining in — Perturabo finally hit his limit. He slammed his palm on the table. Everyone went silent.
"Enough!"
"What have I been teaching you all this time? What is the Iron Warriors' duty? I told you to reflect, to reform, to find goals that would bring you genuine steadiness — and what are you doing?"
"Warmaster? So what? It's impressive, is it? I've modified you, integrated Abominable Intelligence into the Legion, overhauled and upgraded the fleet, furnished you with armoured forces — and you think I did all that so you could chase titles?"
"All this noise and argument over something so meaningless! What is there even to argue about!"
"What does it matter if I'm not named Warmaster? What can they actually do to me? The moment I give the order, the Emperor himself would have to come crawling to beg me not to cut the Crusade's supply lines. Warmaster? What does Warmaster even amount to!"
"And as for the rest of you — engineers, administrators — are you telling me you have no projects, no administrative demands? You have nothing better to do than to involve yourselves in this?"
"Dantioch!"
The shout reduced every son and every Steel Council member to instant silence. Heads retracted like turtles into their shells.
"Here, Father."
Dantioch rose to his feet.
"What kind of commanding officer are you? You can't even hold your own brothers together? I think lately you've been—"
Perturabo went down the list — naming each commander and Iron Smith one by one, delivering each a personal critique — before his temper finally began to cool.
Looking out at the crowd, now collectively afraid to breathe, his tone softened gradually.
"I understand your intentions. Olympia has faced no small amount of controversy over the years because of me, and I know that weighs on you. But this isn't something you need to worry about. Whatever falls, I'm the one who carries it. Why do you invest so much in this?"
"Do your jobs properly. There's no need to think beyond that."
"I'll consider the Warmaster position. If I genuinely want it, it's mine regardless — without any help from you. Who could possibly contest it if I decided to claim it?"
"Put your minds at ease. Do what you're supposed to do. Stop overthinking. Has your workload been too light lately? Is that why you've all got this much time to drift into fantasies?"
Nobody spoke. Heads bowed low. Perturabo looked at them and decided he'd said enough. They were doing it for him — even if there were certainly some personal ambitions mixed in, his sister, his brother, and his sons were sincere.
"That's enough. My research has hit a new breakthrough and I haven't time to sit here. When the Legion returns to the Great Crusade is entirely dependent on how much progress you make. Hit the target I've set, and I'll let you march again."
Perturabo turned and walked away, leaving not a sliver of room for illusions.
Warmaster? What was a Warmaster worth?