Konrad Curze's arrival on Terra did not resemble the triumphant returns of his brothers.
There were no banners.
No orchestral crescendos.
No cheering crowds.
The procession occurred at night.
By his request, illumination was reduced to minimal lumen strips along the landing approach. The vast plazas remained in shadow.
The assembled personnel had been ordered to remain silent.
No chanting.
No acclaim.
No celebration.
The atmosphere was not hostile.
It was restrained.
Which, to Curze, was preferable.
The Cat in the Dark
Yuki watched him move through the shadows.
He did not walk like a noble.
He did not walk like a general.
He moved like a predator testing unfamiliar terrain.
If startled, he tensed.
If touched unexpectedly, he recoiled.
Fulgrim had quietly taken responsibility for helping Curze acclimate during transit.
Teaching him basic social conventions.
Handshakes.
Table etiquette.
Personal distance.
It had not been easy.
Curze disliked physical contact.
He disliked light.
He disliked crowds.
But he listened to Fulgrim.
That, in itself, was significant.
"Konrad," Yuki said gently, extending her hand.
He stared at it for a long moment before mirroring the gesture stiffly.
Progress.
Fulgrim smiled faintly.
"See? Perfectly civilized."
Curze said nothing.
Terra
The ship settled.
Mortarion was the first to approach.
He studied Curze carefully.
There was something familiar in the gaunt frame, the pallor, the darkness behind the eyes.
"You prefer darkness?" Mortarion asked.
Curze nodded once.
"Light reveals too much," he said quietly.
Mortarion grunted.
"Barbarus had little light."
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only recognition.
Guilliman stepped forward, polite as always.
"What is the administrative structure of Nostramo now?"
Perturabo immediately turned his head.
"Must you conduct audits the moment he lands?"
Guilliman blinked.
"I was asking."
He genuinely was.
Curze's gaze flicked between them.
He found Guilliman uncomfortable.
Not because he disliked him.
But because Guilliman represented order without fear.
And Curze did not believe such order could survive.
The Banquet Incident
The banquet was subdued.
Curze ate mechanically, observing.
Analyzing.
Every laugh.
Every glance.
Every micro-expression.
Fulgrim tried to keep him engaged.
Across the table, Dorn and Perturabo had already drifted into debate.
"Can you construct a fortress no one can breach?" Fulgrim asked Dorn lightly.
"Yes," Dorn replied.
Perturabo's jaw tightened.
"You presume too much."
Dorn frowned.
"I answered a question."
"You imply superiority."
"I imply competence."
Fulgrim closed his eyes briefly.
And then—
Crunch.
All conversation stopped.
Curze had lifted the edge of his plate and bitten into it.
He had mistaken the thin decorative wafer beneath the plating for edible ceramic.
The sound echoed.
Fulgrim nearly died of embarrassment.
"Konrad," he whispered urgently, gently taking the plate from him.
Curze tilted his head.
"It resembled food."
"It was not."
Curze nodded once.
He made no apology.
He simply adjusted.
Mortarion's Complaint
Later, Mortarion stormed into Yuki's chamber.
"You assigned Barbarus to Lorgar?"
His tone carried barely restrained fury.
"He is not altering your culture," Yuki replied calmly.
"He is a zealot."
"He is currently buried in atmospheric filtration plans and soil remediation."
Mortarion hesitated.
"…He has not begun preaching."
"Then trust him."
Mortarion fell silent.
Trust did not come easily to him.
But he left without further protest.
The Prophecy Breaks
It happened during the latter half of the gathering.
Without warning.
Curze froze.
Then his hands went to his skull.
The visions surged.
Not fragments.
Not flashes.
Entire sequences.
Brothers fighting.
Cities burning.
The Emperor turning away.
His own hands red with blood.
He felt every blade.
Every scream.
For Curze, prophecy was not observation.
It was experience.
He relived futures in full sensory immersion.
Fulgrim reached for him.
Curze recoiled with a guttural snarl.
Guilliman moved forward—
"Leave," Yuki said quietly.
The room cleared.
The Knife
Curze sat hunched, trembling.
"I saw it again," he whispered. "All of it."
"Tell me."
He did.
He described betrayal.
Fratricide.
His own execution.
Every outcome fixed.
Immutable.
"I tried to change them," he said hoarsely. "They always occur."
Yuki listened without interruption.
Then she picked up a dinner knife.
Curze's eyes sharpened.
She covered his eyes with one hand.
"Tell me what happens next."
His mind exploded with branching futures.
The knife striking him.
The knife striking her.
The knife falling harmlessly.
The knife vanishing.
Too many.
Chaotic.
Unstable.
"I… I cannot fix it," he whispered.
"Exactly."
She lowered the knife.
Removed her hand.
It clattered harmlessly onto the floor.
"You do not see one future," she said. "You see possibilities. You assume the worst because you believe humanity deserves it."
Curze's breathing slowed.
"You killed the man on Nostramo," she continued softly.
His body stiffened.
He had never told anyone that.
"He had two possible futures," she said.
"Yes," Curze rasped. "One led to hope. One to collapse."
"And you chose fear."
"…Yes."
"Because you believed hope would fail."
Curze's shoulders shook.
For the first time, doubt pierced his fatalism.
If that future had not been fixed—
If he had chosen wrongly—
How many had he condemned unnecessarily?
"I am no different from them," he whispered.
Yuki knelt before him.
"No. You are different."
She took his wrist and tied a small red cord around it. Attached was a carved emblem.
A horned beast with a single upright crest.
"The Xiezhi," she said. "An ancient Terran symbol. It judged guilt and would gore only the wicked."
Curze stared at it.
"Killing is your flaw," she continued. "Justice is your burden. You will never escape the weight of what you have done."
He flinched.
"But justice is not perfection. It is pursuit."
She held his gaze.
"As long as you pursue it, you are not the monster you fear."
Silence.
Then—
"…I will atone," Curze whispered.
"Not through death," she said.
"Through living."
He closed his eyes.
A single tear fell.
"For the first time," he murmured, "I do not know which future is true."
Yuki allowed herself a small smile.
"Good."
Because uncertainty—
Was the beginning of choice.
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