"I lost, Father."
Horus lifted his hands from the board and leaned back slightly. The game had ended again — as it always did — with the Emperor's quiet, inevitable victory.
Whether he had truly lost was another matter.
The Emperor knew.
Horus knew the Emperor knew.
And the Emperor allowed it.
The Warmaster lingered a moment longer than necessary, fingers resting on the carved pieces. Each completed match meant one fewer excuse to remain here.
Another ending.
Another departure.
But he had come with a purpose.
"Father," Horus said carefully, "Guilliman… do we need to keep an eye on him?"
The Emperor did not answer immediately. He studied the board, then shook his head.
"No, my son. Trust him. Your brothers are as loyal as you are."
Horus lowered his gaze.
"Yes, Father."
He began packing the chess pieces away in silence.
Suspicion and Duty
Horus and Guilliman were, in truth, friends.
Horus admired Guilliman's operational precision and strategic scalability.
Guilliman praised Horus's battlefield instinct and command charisma in nearly every letter.
They respected one another deeply.
But Horus also saw something others missed.
Or thought he did.
Over time, the autonomy of expeditionary forces had begun to narrow. Once, commanders could appoint governors, reorganize conquered territories, and deploy resources freely. Now, civilian administrative structures increasingly replaced military authority.
Horus's investigation traced these bureaucratic networks to a single origin:
The Imperial Cabinet.
At first, he suspected Malcador.
After Guilliman's return, the administrative expansion accelerated.
Horus wrote repeatedly, warning Guilliman to be cautious of the Sigillite's influence.
Guilliman never answered those questions directly.
Meanwhile, reports from Ultramar described explosive development across the Five Hundred Worlds. Macragge was nearing complete self-sufficiency. Industrial output surged. Trade routes stabilized. Civil governance expanded with unprecedented efficiency.
It was, effectively, a realm within the Imperium.
A realm ruled by a Primarch who now held one of the Empire's most powerful civil offices.
A Primarch whose military successes continued to mount.
To many observers, the conclusion seemed obvious.
Guilliman had ambition.
Horus did not want to believe it.
But duty demanded preparation.
So he spoke to his father.
The Emperor's Silence
The Emperor did not share Horus's concern.
Nor did he dismiss it entirely.
If any Primarch possessed the capacity to build an independent power base, it was Guilliman.
But the Emperor did not fear that outcome.
As long as the Great Crusade advanced, the Imperium benefited.
If rebellion came someday, it would be dealt with then.
For now, Guilliman was useful.
And loyal.
Ministry of State Affairs
"Heaven and earth bear witness, I am truly loyal!"
"Ha."
Leman Russ leaned back with a snort.
Malcador, standing nearby, raised a calming hand.
"Enough. Sit down, both of you."
Russ was one of the Primarchs who visited Terra most frequently. Whenever he encountered problems — strategic, political, or philosophical — his first instinct was to consult Malcador.
Privately, he even called him uncle, as Yuki did.
Today he had come as usual.
He had not expected to find Guilliman seated at a desk, calmly reviewing administrative reports.
Russ did not dislike Guilliman.
But he distrusted him.
Not personally.
Professionally.
Guilliman rose immediately to greet him. They spoke at length — about campaigns, logistics, planetary governance, and the difficulty of holding compliance worlds together after conquest.
Russ found himself… liking him.
That made the question harder.
So he asked it directly.
"Are you planning to go independent?"
The pleasant atmosphere shattered.
Guilliman blinked in genuine shock.
He immediately declared his loyalty.
Russ did not look convinced.
That was the scene Malcador entered.
After hearing both sides, the Sigillite sighed.
"Russ, Guilliman is not that kind of man."
Russ sprawled across the sofa, unconvinced.
"That may be. But my brothers think otherwise."
Guilliman clutched his chest.
"Why? Why do they think this?"
Russ bit into a piece of fruit.
"Because you look homesick."
Envy and Perception
Few Primarchs truly disliked Guilliman.
Most found his statesman's demeanor overly formal.
But nearly all envied him.
They had grown in hardship, war, or desolation.
Guilliman had known stability, family, and prosperity.
Worse — he spoke of them openly.
And Ultramar's rapid rise only reinforced the perception.
Add his Cabinet authority and his administrative reforms, and the conclusion seemed inevitable:
He was building something.
Guilliman protested.
"I did it for a reason."
"Oh?" Russ said. "And that reason is?"
"Macragge is a strategic stronghold in the Eastern Fringe. It must be strengthened for Imperial stability—"
Russ snorted.
"Do you believe that yourself?"
Guilliman hesitated.
"…My sister did the same."
Russ surged to his feet.
"THIRTEENTH PRINCE, I'LL KILL YOU!"
Malcador froze him mid-lunge with psychic force.
"Russ. Sit."
Russ dropped back onto the couch, glaring.
"Where is my sister?"
"She is on her way from the gene research facility," Malcador said calmly.
Russ bared his teeth at Guilliman.
Guilliman scratched his head awkwardly.
New Arrivals
"Oh. Everyone's here."
Yuki entered the room — with Rogal Dorn standing rigidly behind her like a sentry.
Russ immediately crossed to her side.
She took his hand.
"Dorn, wait here. Speak with Guilliman."
"Guilliman, this is Dorn. Russ and I need a moment."
She dragged Russ away before he could protest.
Two Idealists
"Sit," Malcador said.
Dorn sat upright, hands on knees.
Guilliman turned toward him.
"I am Rogal Dorn."
Guilliman realized this was an introduction.
He quickly responded with his own name and, by instinct, launched into a formal commendation of Dorn's campaign efficiency and fortress doctrine.
Dorn stared at him.
"Why did you praise me?"
Guilliman blinked.
"…Should I not?"
Malcador nearly developed a migraine.
He intervened.
"Dorn, weren't you at the Crusade front? Why return?"
"My sister requested structural renovations. I will depart after the plastering is complete."
Guilliman frowned.
"What renovations require a Primarch's presence?"
Dorn did not lie.
But he did not answer.
Guilliman understood.
Another classified matter.
He had learned to let such things go.
Dorn studied him for several seconds.
Then asked, with complete sincerity:
"Are you harboring ill intentions?"
Guilliman froze.
"Heaven and earth bear witness," he declared, hand to chest, "I, Guilliman, am absolutely loyal! If I harbor even the slightest malice, may I sleep for ten thousand years!"
He looked around in confusion.
"How does everyone know I have ill intentions? Who is spreading this rumor?"
Somewhere in the shadows, Alpharius looked offended.
Why are you looking at me?
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