"Resentment? That's rather exaggerated. We've never met before, and this is my first time meeting my brothers as well—what resentment could there be?"
"On the contrary, I'm more concerned about what you intend to do to my Olympia."
Perturabo's tone was calm.
His knife and fork sliced through the steak as he mixed a piece of meat with vegetables and placed it into his mouth.
The sound of chewing was unnervingly loud.
"Brother, you misunderstand. We only came to see our newly returned sibling," Horus said quickly. He had no wish for a newly found brother to grow estranged from the Imperium over a misunderstanding.
"Is that so? Because the way you look doesn't resemble a welcome at all. Don't tell me this is how you greet a Primarch—fully armed, looking like executioners, and even threatening his offspring."
The words caused everyone's expressions to change drastically.
They all knew their original purpose. They had assumed this brother would treat it as an unfortunate precaution—something to gloss over.
"Brother, Father and we meant no such thing," Horus spoke first.
"Yes," Guilliman added, "our intent was only to prevent unforeseen circumstances. We had absolutely no desire to harm you or your descendants. Please do not overthink this."
Sanguinius stood, his wings spreading slightly as a soft light illuminated the surroundings.
"Brother," he said, his voice soft and resonant, almost otherworldly.
"We came today because Father—and all of us—care deeply about you."
The Angel was indeed perfect. Every word he spoke was soothing, like a spring breeze. No wonder he would later maintain such harmonious relations with all his brothers.
Perturabo's blue eyes fixed on him. The Angel's face was so beautiful it inspired a strange sense of pity.
"I didn't expect you to lie as well."
The words made Sanguinius's expression falter.
What he had said was sincere—but their prior actions had not been.
"You are too unstable, Perturabo. This was a necessary precaution."
At last, Malcador—who had remained silent—spoke.
The Emperor had intended to respond, but his old friend's intervention made him swallow his words.
He did not know how to handle this situation.
And clearly, it was the wrong choice.
"So that's your justification for bringing my descendants here as leverage against me?"
Perturabo did not raise his voice, but his words drew the Emperor's gaze back to him.
Malcador's statement had struck a nerve among the Primarchs.
Even Dorn and Russ, who had always respected the Regent, now felt a flicker of displeasure.
Stephanie and Andos had no idea what had just happened. How had the atmosphere turned so tense so suddenly?
"It seems you hold deep prejudice against me, Perturabo."
The Emperor's voice silenced the room.
"For certain actions of mine that you may find offensive, I offer you my apology, my son."
"You have returned. That alone proves our earlier concerns were excessive."
Perturabo was not so easily placated. Anyone who believed the Emperor's words at face value would be a fool.
"But…"
Of course.
Perturabo had expected this.
"You have touched upon a taboo. You know what I mean."
The Emperor's tone deepened. Most of the Primarchs did not dare meet his gaze—they had never seen this side of him.
Magnus lowered his head, fully aware of what was being referred to: the Abominable Intelligences, the logic engines, the automated systems spanning the entire city.
"Yes. I use Abominable Intelligence. I let Iron Ring automata govern the city, let logic engines control the defenses, let automated production lines run day and night—and I will continue to do so."
"You know, I originally planned to have those Abominable Intelligences serve you your food. But I didn't like the idea. I didn't want my carefully constructed palace damaged—it would annoy me."
Perturabo stared directly at the Emperor.
The Emperor's gaze grew dangerous.
"You know what happened before. Why would you still do this?"
The Emperor stood.
In that moment, he seemed immense—not physically, but in presence. The entire hall trembled under the golden radiance that emanated from him.
"You know of the Men of Iron rebellion," he said, his voice like distant thunder.
"You know the price humanity paid."
"I do."
Perturabo rose as well, meeting him eye to eye, his expression devoid of emotion.
"But I also know this: your Imperial Truth forbids Abominable Intelligence, forbids religion, forbids everything you deem dangerous. But have you ever considered that the true danger lies not in the tools—but in those who wield them?"
"The Men of Iron did not rebel without cause. You know better than I how long humanity relied on them. Why did they suddenly revolt? Why did human history and technology suffer such a catastrophic collapse during that era?"
"Setting that aside."
Perturabo summoned a logic engine. A vast projection appeared before the hall, displaying civilian habitats across the Olympia system.
"These people under my rule are fed, clothed, employed. They have a future. They do not starve because of bureaucratic corruption, nor are they displaced due to incompetence."
"My A.I. is more efficient, more just, more reliable than your bureaucratic system. On what grounds do you forbid it? Endless exploitation? Crushing taxation? Or reliance on your bloated, inefficient administrators?"
There was unmistakable mockery in his voice.
"They nearly destroyed humanity once."
The Emperor's gaze remained cold.
"That was when no one could control them," Perturabo countered without hesitation.
"I can."
"My logic engines obey my every command. My Iron Ring automata will not betray me—because they understand that betrayal means absolute annihilation."
"I have absolute confidence in this."
"I have the strength—and the right—to say so."
His almost unhinged certainty darkened the Emperor's expression.
Russ's hand moved to the Spear at his side. Dorn's hand rested on Storm's Teeth. The Lion gripped his sword hilt. Vulkan's hammer hummed faintly. Even Sanguinius's expression hardened, his spear poised.
Stephanie and Andos turned pale. They wanted to speak, to mediate—but the sheer pressure crushed their voices before they could form. Their bodies trembled, barely able to lift even a utensil.
"So… what now?"
Perturabo looked at the Emperor, a faintly provocative smile on his lips, utterly disregarding his brothers' readiness for battle.
"Father—how will you deal with me? Kill me? Can you?"
"Or do you think all of you together could? Or will you resort to something more… dishonorable? Taking my sister and brother hostage—just as you used my sons to threaten me into compliance?"
The Emperor said nothing.
He simply looked at his son—the son he had created, yet who had completely slipped beyond his control.
In Perturabo, he saw many things: genius, obsession, arrogance, solitude… and that disdain for all rules that only the truly powerful possess.
And something else he could not deny:
Truth.
Because Perturabo was right.
His people lived well.
His world was better governed than most Imperial worlds. His armies were strong, his technology advanced, his rule stable. Humanity under him lived in comfort and security.
If he were not a Primarch—if he were merely a ruler—the Emperor might have already ordered Exterminatus, reducing this entire system to dust.
But Perturabo was a Primarch.
He was the Emperor's son. A crucial piece of his grand design—and one who had strayed far from it.
"What you fear will not come to pass."
At last, the Emperor broke the suffocating silence. There was something in his voice that Perturabo could not quite understand.
"You are my son. Commander of the Fourth Legion. A general of the Great Crusade. You stand with us—for humanity."
Perturabo was silent for a moment.
Then he smiled.
Not mockery. Not provocation.
Something more complex—almost… relieved.
"The way I fight for humanity is not the same as yours. I will not lead my Legion to conquer the galaxy, nor plant the Imperial Aquila on every world. I will not let your bureaucratic system exploit newly liberated populations."
"I will remain here, on Olympia, and build my world into a true fortress."
"From here, I will expand—turn every reclaimed territory into part of my domain."
"If humanity truly stands at the brink of extinction one day, then I will step forward. I will fight—with my armies, my weapons, my technology."
He looked at the Emperor.
"But now? The Great Crusade? For the Imperium? For humanity?"
"I'm not interested."
"I'd rather stay in my laboratory, developing new inventions, than lead a Legion to pay a heavy price for something so… intangible."
"Here on Olympia, I live comfortably. Freely. I neither crave glory, nor require praise, nor the ignorant adoration of the masses."
The Emperor was silent for a long time.
Then, he nodded.
Everyone except Perturabo was stunned.
What did this mean?
Was the Fourth Legion to withdraw from the Great Crusade entirely?
"The Great Crusade will continue. You may abstain—but your Legion will not. That is my final condition."
Perturabo paused.
After a long silence… he agreed.
"What I intend may not succeed. If the day comes when matters truly become irreversible… I hope you will stand for humanity."
The Emperor's psychic voice echoed in Perturabo's mind.
Perturabo sat back down.
He had, in effect, accepted the condition.
The atmosphere of the banquet changed.
No one spoke—but the sharp tension had dissipated.
In its place was something far more complex.
Understanding? Acceptance?
Or merely… exhausted compromise?
No one smiled anymore.
Even Russ and Guilliman sat in silence. Stephanie and Andos's hearts pounded wildly. The mortal attendants had long since withdrawn—this was no place for them.
The atmosphere did not ease.
It solidified—like molten adamantium suddenly cooled. Calm on the surface, yet still burning within.
No one spoke.
The clinking of utensils against plates became the only sound in the hall—crisp, rhythmic, and cold as the void beyond Olympia's ring.
Perturabo sat in his seat, picked up his knife and fork, and continued cutting the unfinished steak.
His movements were as precise as ever.
Every angle, every cut—identical to before.
As if the confrontation that could shake the stars had been nothing more than an appetizer.
But his brothers could not do the same.
Horus held his wine glass but did not drink. His gaze moved between Perturabo and the Emperor, his usually warm expression now devoid of emotion.
The First Son's mind raced. He needed to reassess this brother, reassess their father's stance, reassess the future.
In this, he was no less capable than Guilliman.
Guilliman lowered his head, staring at his plate without eating.
New models formed in his mind.
If the Fourth Legion did not participate in the Crusade, the expeditionary forces would lose a critical logistical pillar.
If Perturabo remained behind to construct defenses, the Imperium's eastern frontier would fundamentally change.
If their father allowed such an "independent realm" to exist…
Guilliman cut off the thought immediately—but his mind could not help branching into dangerous possibilities.
At last, he gave a faint, wry smile and drained his glass.
For once, Russ did not drink.
He set his metal flask on the table, arms crossed, wolfish eyes fixed on Perturabo.
He was evaluating.
Evaluating his brother's strength. His threat level. How one might fight him—if it ever came to that.
The conclusion made him deeply uneasy.
Russ turned to look at the Lion across from him.
The Lion's expression remained as composed as ever—but the slight tension in his jaw betrayed him.
He, too, was unsettled.
Their Legions had never been particularly close.
But in this moment, they shared the same realization:
This brother… was dangerous.
Dorn did not look at Perturabo—or anyone else.
He simply continued eating.
One bite at a time.
Precise. Mechanical. Emotionless.
But Dorn's mind never stopped working.
He recalculated Olympia's defensive structure, reassessed every hidden firing point, reconsidered the cost the Imperial Fists would have to pay if Perturabo ever became an enemy.
The answer made him set down his knife and fork.
Vulkan was the most visibly unsettled. The dark, imposing giant looked from the Emperor to Perturabo, his rugged face filled with confusion and concern.
He did not understand the complexities of politics, nor the arguments about Abominable Intelligence and taboo. He only knew that brothers should stand together—that they should fight for humanity side by side.
But now, everything had become complicated.
He opened his mouth, intending to ease the tension, but Ferrus gently pressed a hand against his arm.
A slight shake of the head.
Not yet.
Vulkan sighed. Since things had come to this, he turned back to the food—but what had once tasted exquisite now felt like chewing wax.
Fulgrim continued cutting a piece of vegetable with flawless grace, his movements smooth and elegant, as if nothing had happened.
Yet if one looked closely, each time his utensils touched the plate, they lingered a fraction of a second longer than usual.
Few could ever tell what he was thinking. That ever-present charming smile revealed nothing of his inner world.
Sanguinius sat quietly, amber eyes fixed on Perturabo.
There was no anger, no fear in his expression—only something complex, almost akin to compassion.
Even though moments ago, he had been prepared to drive the Spear of Telesto through this brother's heart.
Magnus kept his head lowered, not daring to look at anyone.
When Perturabo had spoken earlier, his psychic senses had glimpsed something—
A colossal factory deep within the Warp, belching black smoke; a massive machine bound within it; countless tiny shadows moving inside that titanic structure.
He could not see clearly—his psychic strength was not yet enough to perceive the true nature of such forbidden craft.
But Perturabo had not intended harm toward him.
This brother's power far exceeded his imagination.
Magnus realized the vast gulf between them.
Time passed in silence.
Five minutes. Ten minutes. Half an hour…
No one spoke.
Only the crisp clatter of utensils echoed through the hall. The pressure of that silence seemed almost tangible, weighing on every heart.
The Emperor picked up his glass, swirled it gently, then set it back down.
Everyone looked up.
"The banquet will continue."
His voice carried an almost irresistible authority. Though Perturabo was the host, the mortal attendants instinctively re-entered, resuming their service of food and wine.
"There are some matters I must make clear."
He looked at Perturabo.
"Your A.I. Your logic engines. Your automated systems—I will tolerate them. On one condition."
"You must never allow them to go out of control. If any machine under your command betrays humanity, you will destroy it yourself. If they lose control on a large scale, you will destroy the entire system."
"If you cannot do so… then I will do it for you."
His tone was calm.
But the weight behind those words needed no emphasis.
Perturabo was silent for a moment.
Then he nodded.
"Agreed."
The Emperor then looked at each of the Primarchs.
"What transpired today remains within this room. The matter of the Fourth Primarch not participating in the Great Crusade is known only to those present."
"To the outside, it will be declared that the Fourth Primarch is fully devoted to advancing the Imperium's armaments—developing superior equipment for the Crusade. The Fourth Legion will retain certain privileges under special circumstances. This is a standard military arrangement and requires no further explanation."
Guilliman frowned slightly.
He understood. The Emperor was giving Perturabo a legitimate place within the Imperial system—while preventing other Primarchs from following such a precedent of "independence."
But would it truly work?
He did not ask. This was not the moment.
Finally, the Emperor turned back to Perturabo.
"Your Legion will receive standard supply and command. The worlds under your rule will pay Imperial tithe. Beyond that, I will not interfere in your governance. This is the greatest concession I can offer."
Perturabo met his gaze, complex emotions flickering in his blue eyes.
"Deal."
…
Russ was the first to break the silence—not out of tactlessness, but because, to him, once their father had spoken, there was no need to maintain tension.
And it was simply his nature.
"Brother, this place of yours isn't bad."
He lifted his massive metal flask in Perturabo's direction.
"A bit oppressive, maybe—but this meat's well done. Better than the cooks in the Imperial Palace, I'd say."
"Come—try my drink. Fenrisian specialty. It'll warm up this cold palace of yours."
He pushed the flask across the smooth tabletop. It slid forward and stopped precisely before Perturabo—fifteen centimeters from his plate, perfectly aligned.
Perturabo glanced down at it, then at Russ.
The Wolf King wore his usual carefree grin—but there was genuine goodwill in his eyes.
Perturabo picked up the flask, poured a cup. The amber liquid swirled within the red crystal goblet, releasing a strong aroma.
He brought it to his nose, inhaled briefly—then drank it in one go.
The fiery liquid burned down his throat, exploding like a blaze in his stomach.
Russ burst into booming laughter, loud enough to make the chandeliers tremble.
"Hahaha! Good tolerance! You're the third one to drink Fenrisian mead without flinching on the first try!"
"Oh? And the others?"
Russ grinned, pointing first at the Emperor, then at Guilliman—who looked slightly embarrassed.
"He turned green the first time—but still finished the whole glass, then calmly said it tasted good."
Guilliman gave a wry smile.
"That was the most unforgettable drink of my life."
"Even Ferrus couldn't stand it—but he did. You've got to respect that," Russ teased.
A low ripple of laughter spread through the hall.
It wasn't loud—but it was enough to dispel the lingering chill.
Vulkan seized the moment.
"Brother, how did you design this palace's heating system? It feels warmer than Nocturne."
Perturabo glanced at him, a hint of interest in his eyes.
"Geothermal circulation. Olympia's core activity is higher than most planets. I drilled deep wells to channel geothermal energy throughout the city, supplemented by plasma heating—achieving stable temperature control while maintaining efficiency."
Vulkan's eyes lit up—his already red gaze now gleaming like polished garnet.
"How deep are the wells?"
"73 kilometers. We penetrated the upper crust to the edge of the asthenosphere. Temperatures reach thirteen hundred degrees Celsius—but with layered insulation and heat exchange systems, efficiency can be maintained at—"
Vulkan committed every word to memory.
Dorn, listening nearby, could not help but interject.
"What materials are used for insulation? What pressure tolerance?"
Perturabo glanced at him, then summoned a small data-slate via his logic engine, input several figures, and handed it over.
Dorn studied it carefully.
When he looked up, there was a flash of near astonishment in his eyes.
"All of this… you designed and developed alone?"
"Yes. Took a year. Failed twenty-two times. But the result was worth it."
Dorn fell silent for a moment, then returned the slate with solemn respect.
"I want this technology—for the Phalanx."
"You can have it. In exchange for your fortress schematics."
"Agreed."
No hesitation.
Horus watched, his smile finally regaining its warmth. He raised his glass.
"For the Imperium—and for humanity."
Glasses rose, meeting in the air.
The banquet continued late into the night.
When the final dessert was cleared, when the last bottle was opened, when the final conversation came to a pause—the Primarchs began to depart one by one.
Ferrus was the first to leave. He was eager to see Perturabo's forges.
Perturabo assigned an Iron Warrior to guide him.
"Look around as you like. The plasma furnace might interest you."
Ferrus nodded with a smile and disappeared down the corridor.
Dorn was next. He needed to return to the Phalanx to recalculate system parameters—but before leaving, he approached Perturabo.
"Tomorrow morning. I will bring the schematics."
Vulkan and the others departed in turn.
Fulgrim offered an elegant farewell bow—so refined that even Perturabo gave him a second glance.
Before leaving, Guilliman paused before Perturabo.
"Brother, I know you do not trust us. But the Thirteenth Legion—and Ultramar—will always be open to you. Trade, technology, or… any assistance you may need."
"I've seen Olympia. Perhaps one day, you might visit Macragge. Whenever you wish—you will be received with the highest honors."
"Thank you."
It was the first time Perturabo had spoken those words that night.
Guilliman smiled, then left.
Magnus hesitated, then approached. The usually eloquent Primarch found himself at a loss for words.
He opened his mouth—then simply nodded, and departed quickly.
When Russ left, he slapped Perturabo on the shoulder with enough force to crush a Custodian's skull.
"Brother—come to Fenris sometime. I'll treat you to the finest mead we have!"
He laughed and strode away.
The Lion was the last.
He stood before Perturabo in silence for a long time.
His gaze was sharp as a blade, as if trying to dissect his very soul.
Perturabo did not look away.
They held each other's gaze.
Neither spoke.
At last, the Lion turned and left without a word.
"Brother, if you need help taking command of your Legion, come to me. I believe I can assist."
Horus lingered after the Emperor and Malcador had departed, speaking quietly to Perturabo.
"I think I will."
Horus smiled faintly and followed after them.
"Father," he said, his voice low.
"Is this brother… stable enough? Or—"
He did not finish.
The Emperor understood.
"He will be humanity's final line of defense."
Horus paused.
"When everything collapses—when all others abandon hope—he will still stand behind humanity."
"Why?"
"Because he is that kind of person. One who claims not to care… yet will never step back when it truly matters."
"He is worthy of our trust, Horus."
The Emperor and Malcador walked toward the Stormbird.
Horus remained where he stood, watching its silhouette vanish into the sky.
Only Perturabo, Stephanie, and Andos remained in the hall.
The Iron Warriors silently cleared the table. Automata cleaned the floor without a sound. Everything proceeded in perfect order.
Stephanie stood and walked to Perturabo's side. She said nothing—only gently took his hand.
"Sister… did I frighten you?"
Perturabo asked softly.
"A little."
Her voice was slightly hoarse.
He lowered his head, looking at her. The sharpness and defiance in his blue eyes had faded—replaced by exhaustion… and a trace of apology.
"I'm sorry. I was… impulsive."
Stephanie shook her head. She rose onto her toes, reaching for his head as she had when they were children—but their size difference made it impossible.
Perturabo used his psychic power to reduce his form.
Only then could she reach him.
"You're my brother. No matter what happens—I'm here."
Andos stepped forward as well, standing beside him. He said nothing—but his presence spoke clearly enough.
Perturabo looked at them, something complex stirring within him.
"Go. Get some rest. We have much to do tomorrow."
"…Alright."
They disappeared down the corridor.
Perturabo remained where he stood, watching their backs for a long time.
Then he stepped outside, looking up at the vast, glittering galaxy. The Great Rift still loomed—but now, in his eyes, it no longer seemed so overwhelming.
The Imperial fleet remained docked in his starport, their lights like stars illuminating Olympia's night. His brothers were aboard those ships, each reflecting on what had transpired.
He did not know what the future held.
Whether the Emperor would keep his word.
Whether Chaos would strike at the most unexpected moment.
Where his brothers would ultimately stand.
But at least—for now—
Coming here had not been entirely a bad thing.
He stood here—outside his palace, on his world, beside his family.
That was enough.
He turned and walked away.
There was much to prepare for his return to the Imperium—especially the matter of the Mechanicum.
Above him, Olympia's ring glimmered faintly—
Like countless eyes,
Watching over this solitary, formidable soul.