Chapter 647

“Mother.” Guilliman’s voice trembled as he gently clasped the old woman’s hand with his large one.

“You’re so tired, child,” the elderly woman said, gazing at Guilliman with soft eyes, her voice brimming with pity: “You always take on so much responsibility, and so many depend on you—they’ve forgotten you need rest too.”

“I am a Primarch, Lady; you need not worry for me,” Guilliman replied with a sunlit smile, adjusting his facial muscles to ease the weariness from his face.

“But you are still a man, my child,” the old lady said, heartbroken.

Guilliman opened his mouth slightly, as if to speak, but all his words dissolved into one.

“You’re right, Lady,” Guilliman said softly: “I promise you—I will rest properly.”

This brought a faint smile to the old woman’s face; she turned her head aside:

“My lord, won’t you speak with your child? Look at him—he’s worn thin.”

Guilliman froze at her words, his body nearly stiffening.

“Lady Tarasa Uton, he is a sovereign—how can a sovereign pour out his inner sorrows to another man?”

“Not even if that man is his father. This is the dignity of a man and a ruler.”

“Robert, if something weighs on you, speak to Lady Uton—confiding in your mother is never shameful.”

“Lord Conno,” Guilliman realized who stood behind him.

“Just call me Father, child,” came the voice, noble yet worn.

Guilliman turned his head to look at the mortal man behind him—slimmer than himself, and nowhere near the Emperor of old.

Yet Guilliman, Regent of the Human Empire, perhaps the most powerful human alive, knelt slowly on one knee before the mortal, bringing his head level with the man’s.

“Father!” Guilliman pleaded.

“You’ve grown so tall!” Lord Conno’s voice rose, startled and delighted—as if praising Guilliman’s height, or perhaps his achievements: “I am truly sorry, child.”

“I left too suddenly, leaving you alone to face the chaos on Macragge—but you are a far greater sovereign than I ever was. You did excellently.”

“I am sorry too. You are an excellent son, but comparatively, I am a mediocre father.”

“My shallow teachings could offer no help for the problems you faced—or still face.”

“No!” Guilliman interrupted softly, his tone rising slightly: “It was your and Lady Uton’s teachings that carried me through.”

“You need not comfort your humble adoptive father—I am but a planetary governor; how could I teach you to rule a galaxy?” Lord Conno smiled and shook his head.

“No, Father—it was not you who taught me how to rule.”

Guilliman lowered his head; a faint droplet glistened on his knee armor.

“You taught me something far truer than rule.”

The dream blurred, like ink dissolving in water, like sunlight fading through mist—leaving only a warm, gentle touch lingering in Guilliman’s heart.

Blood, fresh and crimson, and corpses piled upon the bomb-scarred earth.

Fulgrim wandered confused through this land—he had never seen it before, nor remembered it.

He knew he was dreaming, yet this dream was strange.

He had just seen a World Eater, clad in blue-and-white power armor, one arm bare, hanging from the front of a Sicaran belonging to the Sons of Horus, speeding away.

Fulgrim recognized him as Khorne, Captain of the Eighth Company—but Fulgrim had no idea Khorne had a taste for being a hood ornament.

Fulgrim lifted his gaze to the blazing black sun hanging low on the horizon.

The sun was black as dread, like a single eye gazing down upon the earth.

“Is this your trial, Father?” Fulgrim called up to the black sun.

“We prefer to call it punishment,” came a muffled voice from behind him, as if rising from a coffin.

Fulgrim turned slowly to look behind him.

There stood a Venerable Dreadnought painted in phoenix purple—tall, sacred, ancient, one arm wielding a twin-linked laser cannon, the other a power claw fitted with a flame projector.

“Raelano? My ancient sage!”

Fulgrim recognized the Dreadnought from memory—one of the most revered warriors among the Sons of the Emperor.

And at the sight of him, Fulgrim suddenly understood:

“This is Istvaan III.”

“You finally remember, traitor!” Raelano growled.

Behind him, countless purple figures emerged—the loyalist Sons of the Emperor who had been betrayed by Fulgrim on Istvaan III.

“.Abdemon, Demit, Kaphen, Ketheron, Sorsan, Laccatius, Vespasian, Zaven, and Sol Tavitz.”

Fulgrim spoke the names of the loyalist warriors:

“My honorable sons, the conscience of our Legion.”

“Silence, traitor!” came a cold, snarling voice.

A warrior of the 34th Thousand, loyal to the Imperium, lunged without restraint at his Primarch.

This entire company had remained loyal to the Empire, yet refused to join the Black Shields like other loyalist traitor-legionaries—abandoning their Legion’s name.

These Sons of the Emperor proudly kept their gold-and-purple livery, hunting down those who defiled their Legion’s honor until their final breath.

Fulgrim did not move; he let the warrior drive his power blade into his body.

“Deputy of the 34th Thousand, ‘Death’s Eagle’—Hanno,” Fulgrim whispered the warrior’s name: “I remember your blade is called ‘Phoenix Light’—you said it was because you wished your sword to be as sharp as the light I once radiated.”

“Look at me now—tell me, can you see that old light in me?”

Fulgrim’s voice was so gentle, so moving, that the warrior hesitated for an instant.

“Still trying to deceive us?” The power claw surged forward, pinning Fulgrim’s body to the ground.

The ancient sage Raelano crushed Fulgrim’s form; another Son of the Emperor stepped forward, blade in hand, driving it straight into Fulgrim’s throat.

Blood spilled from Fulgrim’s mouth; he felt his vocal cords torn—but the blade vanished mid-strike, as if dissolving into his throat.

“For your betrayal, we take your voice, so you may no longer boast of your perfection,” Raelano loomed over him.

“It matters not,” Fulgrim whispered, opening his mouth—he found his voice now hoarse, ugly, shrill, repulsive: “It does not diminish my perfection. My perfection needs no boasting.”

Four more Sons of the Emperor approached Fulgrim, long blades in hand, pressing against his limbs.

“For your betrayal, we take your skill, so you may no longer use force to proclaim your perfection,” Raelano declared coldly.

Blades pierced Fulgrim’s limbs; searing pain tore through him, as if every bone in his body had shattered, leaving him weak and trembling.

“It still does not diminish my perfection,” Fulgrim forced himself upright, staring at Raelano: “My perfection does not come from violence.”

“Then for your betrayal, we take your wit, so you may no longer scheme or pretend at perfection.”

A blade pierced Fulgrim’s brow, churning his brain—he felt his thoughts slow, slower, slower, slower than any mortal’s.