The Emperor regarded the towering figure before him.
"My son," he said, voice calm and absolute, "you are as brave and resolute as I foresaw. You have achieved much. Will you serve me? Will you join me and pledge yourself to humanity?"
Perturabo did not hesitate.
"I ask for nothing more. I will serve you faithfully forever. This is my oath."
Behind them, Yuki muttered under her breath:
"Tsk…"
The Emperor's gaze flicked toward her — a warning without words — before returning to his son.
"Your path will be difficult. Few can bear the burden you must carry. Never tire. Never yield. Be relentless when others falter."
He paused.
"You are my Iron King."
Something in the words struck Perturabo with unexpected force. Whether it was recognition, purpose, or simply the promise of being seen, even he could not have said. But he bowed his head deeply.
"I hope it will always be so."
From the side:
"…Hard to guarantee."
A psionic flick struck Yuki squarely on the forehead.
She winced.
The Child of Olympia
Among all the Primarchs, Perturabo was singular.
Others learned.
He understood.
Others studied.
He perceived structure.
Others invented.
He revealed truth.
His gestation pod fell upon Olympia, a mountainous world fractured into fiercely independent city-states locked in endless rivalry.
Unlike most of his brothers, he did not awaken helpless.
He observed.
Measured.
Inferred.
He named himself.
Perturabo.
He wandered briefly among remote settlements, aiding villagers against predatory beasts and engineering simple defenses. These acts faded into rumor almost immediately, yet the people remembered a giant child with eyes like polished iron.
His earliest vivid memory remained climbing a high peak and staring into the sky at a strange, hateful star — a lidless eye watching the world.
At the summit, soldiers found him and brought him before the tyrant-strategos Dammekos, ruler of Lochos.
Dammekos recognized potential.
He adopted the child.
He intended to use him.
Perturabo's brilliance revealed itself with terrifying speed.
Engineering.
Mathematics.
Art.
Philosophy.
Architecture.
Logistics.
Political theory.
Nothing eluded him.
He dreamed of cities of harmony — aqueducts, bridges, forums, gardens, public works that would uplift humanity.
Dammekos demanded siege engines.
Perturabo designed wonders of war instead.
Fortresses fell.
Cities burned.
Olympia unified beneath iron.
People began worshipping him.
Perturabo despised them for it.
He despised superstition.
He despised manipulation.
He despised being used.
Yet he obeyed.
Because logic dictated obedience.
Because resistance would cost lives.
Because he had nowhere else to belong.
The only person who truly tried to understand him was Calliphone, Dammekos's daughter. She listened, challenged him, treated him as a person rather than a weapon.
Even so, when he felt the Emperor's presence entering the system, he left Olympia without farewell.
No hesitation.
No regret.
No backward glance.
A Son Returns
Where many Primarchs resisted, doubted, or tested the Emperor, Perturabo pledged loyalty almost immediately.
At last:
Order.
Purpose.
Structure.
No petty tyrants.
No superstition.
No fools.
From the Emperor's perspective, this son was ideal:
Disciplined.
Brilliant.
Industrious.
Uncomplaining.
A being who could shoulder the burdens others avoided.
From Perturabo's perspective:
He had come home.
From Yuki's perspective:
This is going to end in tears.
Steel and Suspicion
Perturabo believed relationships were like forged steel:
Heated.
Hammered.
Tempered.
Tested.
Only then could they be trusted.
So when Yuki spoke to him with easy warmth, he did not relax.
He became suspicious.
She chatted casually.
He grew colder.
She smiled.
He scowled.
Yuki: …I really want to punch him.
Their transport cut through the void toward Terra.
Perturabo sat rigidly, one leg crossed, gaze fixed on nothing.
"You expect me," he said flatly, "to participate in a parade?"
Yuki smiled lightly.
"If you don't want one, say so before we arrive. Complaining halfway home accomplishes very little."
"…We can cancel it?"
"Of course."
His expression froze.
He snorted.
Then stared into his teacup as if it had insulted him.
Yuki suppressed a grin.
Watching him struggle with unwanted feelings was strangely satisfying.
Still, she softened her tone.
"I would like you to have one," she added. "Not because your brothers do. Because the people would be glad to see the strength that protects them."
Another snort — but this one carried unmistakable warmth.
"Then the people are truly pitiful," he said. "Reduced to waiting for saviors."
Yuki: I still want to punch him.
Perturabo's personality was notoriously difficult.
Stubborn.
Proud.
Self-isolating.
Defensive to the point of hostility.
But beneath the iron was something fragile:
A desperate need to be valued for more than destruction.
Yuki knew subtlety would fail.
So she chose directness.
She placed a hand on his arm.
"Perturabo. You do not want endless war. You want to build. To create. To shape a world worthy of humanity."
He looked at her sharply.
"I am offering you a choice."
His eyes narrowed.
"What choice?"
"You may refuse expansion duties. I will give you an engineering corps to realize your ideal civilization."
She raised one finger.
"But you will surrender the glory of the Great Crusade."
Another finger.
"Or you lead your Legion to conquer the stars — and delay your dream for decades."
He studied her.
"Is this Father's will?"
"…He will not oppose it."
This was, strictly speaking, optimistic interpretation.
The Emperor required conquest.
But Yuki knew Perturabo.
She knew the choice had already been made in his mind.
Silence stretched.
At last he spoke.
"I will lead my Legion in the Crusade. Expansion comes first. Only then can order be imposed."
"Really?"
He regretted it the instant the words left his mouth.
But pride would not allow retreat.
He nodded stiffly.
Yuki seized his arm with sudden warmth.
"Thank you, Perturabo. You're very kind."
He stiffened like a statue.
"Release me."
She did not.
He extracted his arm with mechanical dignity.
"…Which of my brothers will I meet?"
Yuki checked her slate.
"Horus. Fulgrim. Magnus. Sanguinius."
She paused.
"And Rogal Dorn."
Perturabo's jaw tightened.
Steel met stone.
The future shuddered.
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