"May the Emperor's light guide us."
"And may it reveal truth."
The ritual ended.
Erebus bowed with perfect humility.
He smiled — serene, composed, devout.
He waited until he was alone before the smile vanished.
The expression that replaced it was not madness.
It was calculation.
Vilitas again.
That ancient Terran brute.
Every advancement request delayed.
Every commendation deflected.
Every opportunity quietly redirected elsewhere.
Erebus did not rage loudly.
He did not curse.
He evaluated.
The Problem
From the moment the Emperor descended upon Colchis, Erebus had understood something profound:
Power required structure.
And structure required infiltration.
He did not yet move openly in the name of darker powers — not outwardly. The Great Crusade was still ascendant. The Word Bearers were disciplined. Lorgar had been pulled toward administrative reform rather than worship.
That complicated things.
Erebus' initial strategy had been simple:
Position himself beside Lorgar.
Become indispensable.
Shape influence subtly.
But Lorgar was not easily accessible.
Kor Phaeron retained enormous influence.
And Vilitas — the Terran commander — controlled advancement within the Legion's current operational structure.
Vilitas did not interfere in belief.
He interfered in ambition.
Erebus' promotions stalled.
His performance was exemplary.
Too exemplary.
Vilitas distrusted perfection.
Erebus considered eliminating him.
He discarded the thought immediately.
Premature action was failure.
Chaos — if one wished to use that word — required patience.
And Erebus was patient.
A New Angle
Kor Phaeron.
Not powerful in body.
But powerful in memory.
Influence over Lorgar did not come from rank alone.
It came from shared past.
If Vilitas blocked the military path, Erebus would pursue the emotional one.
He would attach himself to Kor Phaeron's administrative network.
Whisper doctrine slowly.
Not revolution.
Redirection.
He exhaled slowly.
And yet…
For several days now he had felt something strange.
An intermittent chill.
As though evaluated.
Measured.
He dismissed it.
Paranoia was a luxury.
Terra — Legal Instruction
"Hypothetical," Yuki said calmly.
"An individual intends to kill another. He prepares the weapon. He moves to strike. At the last moment he refrains. What is the legal classification?"
Curze considered.
"Attempted murder."
"Correct."
She continued.
"If he is prevented by external force before acting?"
"Attempted murder."
"If he kills based solely on suspicion of future wrongdoing?"
Curze's jaw tightened.
"That would be… extrajudicial execution."
"Correct."
She did not soften her tone.
Curze had ruled Nostramo by fear.
But the Imperium did not function on individual prophecy.
It functioned on codified law.
For Curze, this distinction was agonizing.
On Nostramo, he had killed men for crimes not yet committed.
Because he had seen them commit those crimes.
But if the future was not absolute —
If choice existed —
Then how many had he condemned unjustly?
He did not say this aloud.
But Yuki saw it in his eyes.
Throughout the day's instruction, one name recurred in her examples.
Erebus.
Petty theft.
Incitement.
Fraud.
Manipulation.
Curze noticed.
"You use the same subject repeatedly," he said.
"Pattern recognition is important," she replied calmly.
He did not fully understand why she chose that name.
But he sensed deliberate design.
More importantly —
His visions had quieted.
Since the bracelet had been tied around his wrist, the prophetic storms had lessened in intensity.
They still existed.
But they no longer consumed him.
He did not ask how.
He suspected the answer would disturb him.
Separation
Class concluded.
Curze followed her.
Silently.
She turned.
"Konrad, I must attend Cabinet matters."
He remained still.
"You should meet your Legion."
A pause.
A nod.
She walked away.
He watched until she vanished from sight.
He did not move immediately.
He had seen futures where she died.
Futures where he killed brothers.
Futures where he died alone.
But he had not yet seen her end clearly.
That unsettled him.
The Emperor
As he walked through Terra's shadowed corridors, Curze's thoughts turned darker.
Had the Emperor engineered their scattering?
Had each Primarch's suffering been intentional calibration?
Guilliman shaped to govern.
Dorn shaped to fortify.
Horus shaped to command.
And Curze?
Shaped to terrify.
He both loved and resented the golden figure who called himself father.
If fear was his purpose, then was he merely a tool?
He looked again at the bracelet.
If destiny could blur —
Then perhaps purpose could as well.
The Eighth Legion
The VIII Legion waited in silence.
Before Curze's return, they had already been deployed for terror operations — compliance through spectacle.
That fact had not escaped him.
He stood before them.
They saw a gaunt figure, pale as death, eyes like void.
"My father has given you to me," Curze said softly.
The voice carried effortlessly in the darkness.
"You were already used as instruments of fear."
He tilted his head.
"We will refine that."
One Astartes stepped forward cautiously.
"What are your orders, Lord?"
Curze smiled faintly.
"You will study."
Confusion rippled through the ranks.
"Study… what?"
"Law."
Silence.
Absolute silence.
"You will understand Imperial legal doctrine," Curze continued. "You will know precisely what constitutes crime — and what does not."
His gaze sharpened.
"We will be feared by the enemies of mankind."
A pause.
"And we will not become criminals ourselves."
That last statement carried weight.
Because Curze understood the temptation.
He would forge judges.
Not butchers.
Though he suspected the line between the two would forever haunt him.
Somewhere Else
Erebus paused mid-step.
A flicker of unease crossed his thoughts.
He could not identify its source.
Only the sensation of being discussed.
Measured.
Categorized.
He dismissed it.
There were larger ambitions to cultivate.
The Empire was vast.
Its cracks were subtle.
And Erebus intended to find every single one.
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