Only then could Kariél describe his sortie. He even wanted to add another word to condemn his own carelessness.
Failure.
A true, crushing failure.
He sighed.
"So, you suspected from the beginning that it would be like this?"
In response to his question, Neot nodded calmly.
"They don't give up. Never. Like wolves clinging to prey – they won't open their fanged jaws until they are killed."
"In the end, they can lose countless times. But they only need to win once."
"You know them well," Kariél said thoughtfully. It was not a question but a statement of fact.
He closed his eyes and mentally uttered a name that should not be mentioned. Neot frowned, raised his right hand, and a barely visible golden flash flickered in the air and then disappeared.
After a long moment, he said slowly,
"Even in the psyker channel, it's better not to utter their names. None of them."
"Just four false gods," Kariél sneered. "They are afraid of you to death, Neot."
"No, they are not afraid of me, but of the stolen flame."
The man in the laurel wreath sighed tiredly and picked up a wooden cup from the table. Like everything else on board the "Emperor Sovnium," this simple-looking utensil was adorned with a double-headed eagle.
He picked it up, opened the lid, and drained it in one gulp. The smell of some medicine spread in the air. Kariél frowned.
"Are you wounded?" he asked curtly.
"Nothing serious."
Neot lowered his hand, clutching the cup and blinking slowly. He began to stroke its surface with his fingers.
"It paid a much greater price… It knew this was the last chance. If it didn't work this time, it never would have been able to…"
He looked at Kariél and finished in an icy tone:
"Get you."
"An interesting phrasing," Kariél narrowed his eyes, showing no hint of irritation at such a bold statement.
Behind Neot's words, he sensed a hidden truth – he wasn't speaking directly but hiding the truth behind his words.
On the other hand, Neot had never hidden anything.
"That dagger you gave Konrad…"
Neot spoke again. His voice was calm, but his face became serious.
"When you forged it, did you realize what it actually was?"
"Of course, I know what it is," Kariél smiled serenely. "Just a fragment of my essence that I no longer need. I see no harm in giving it to him."
"Fear… can sometimes be quite useful."
"I can instill fear myself."
"Artificial fear is very different from natural, instinctive fear."
"Then he needs it even more," Kariél smiled slightly. "Doesn't he?"
"Perhaps," Neot replied evasively.
"Well…" Kariél sighed, leaned back in his chair, and, tiredly rubbing the bridge of his nose, changed the subject. "I need to apologize to your bodyguard."
"He's still undergoing treatment. When he recovers, you can find him yourself. But I don't think he will accept your apologies…"
Neot pursed his lips, and sadness reappeared on his face.
"He is broken," the man in the wreath said quietly. "Broken by my own hands, by my design… And by the time I realized it, it was too late. He became my shadow. He does not consider my words, does not reject or question them…"
"And you don't like it," Kariél said. "Right?"
"I don't like it, but it's necessary," Neot replied with a sad smile. "Necessary for the Emperor."
Kariél looked at him impassively. There was no sympathy in his black eyes – he would not pity someone who had already made their choice. Except, he felt a little sad.
"Conquest is a cruel process, Kariél. It brings countless wars, and the flames it ignites are nothing like the tiny spark of hope you lit on Nostramo."
"This flame will burn countless people, turning them into charred corpses in agonizing torment. And those who are lucky enough to survive will be forever crippled."
"Valdor is one of them. He has been through so many wars that it was enough to cast aside everything but loyalty to me… I know what they are thinking. For them, it is an honor, but I did not want this."
He slumped his shoulders and muttered as if to himself, "I did not want this."
"But it was necessary."
"Yes, necessary," Neot replied quietly.
Their conversation broke off at this point.
Kariél tilted his head back to relax in the chair.
Images of the slaughter flashed rapidly before his mind's eye. He dispassionately reviewed his verdicts:
in the darkness, his right hand on the pistol grip, chained children...
His hand trembled.
"A necessary evil," he said hoarsely. "A necessary sacrifice, right?"
"Yes."
Kariel smirked. "Was your art of convincing others born from the art of convincing yourself?"
But Neot merely shook his head. "I rarely convinced myself. I merely showed myself the right path. That's all."
The right path...
Kariel closed his eyes and fell silent, as if sinking into a serene sleep.
...
Frankly, Fulgrim's nerves were frayed to the breaking point today.
First, Kariel Lohars' Great Purge, then the appearance of the Adeptus Custodes, and then this sudden lock on his father's study door...
All of this caused the Chemosian unusual fatigue.
Normally, his energy was enough for several days and nights of intense work without the slightest rest, but now he wanted only one thing – to lie on the couch and not move.
Of course, on the couch in Ferrus Manus's room – the very one that Fulgrim, despite his brother's protests, had personally placed there.
The Iron Hand would never have allowed such a luxury and comfort into his quarters.
"Ten more days," Ferrus Manus, who was sitting at his desk, suddenly said.
In front of him lay a stack of blueprints: some completely filled, others still blank. Neat lines were frozen on the paper, and small annotations were visible in the bottom left corner. Although these were sketches, the degree of their detail was astonishing.
"Ten more what? Nine, Ferrus," Fulgrim replied hoarsely.
He covered his face with a soft velvet pillow, making his voice sound so muffled.
"Nine will be in an hour," Ferrus Manus corrected him seriously.
He wasn't trying to imitate Rogal Dorn or just nitpick. Such a serious tone in conversation with his brother was explained only by the fact that he was currently immersed in thought.
"Nine will be in an hour... Since when have you been so pedantic about time, Ferrus?"
"I'm not pedantic, I'm just pointing out the difference."
"The difference? Is an hour a big difference?"
"Sometimes, yes," Ferrus replied evasively, placing his hands on his knees and maintaining a perfectly straight posture. He looked at the spread-out blueprints, and his brows furrowed ever tighter.
Fulgrim was silent for a moment, then removed the velvet pillow from his face.
"You're not going to cite some extreme wartime situation to argue with me, are you?" the Chemosian asked with disbelief.
...He was going to.
Fulgrim laughed – out of indignation. "When have I ever hesitated on the battlefield?!"
"Never."
"Then why are you bringing it up?!"
"Because that's how it is," Ferrus turned his head. "Isn't it?"
"Many junior officers missed deadlines due to their frivolous attitude towards time. Although there aren't that many of them in total, each of their mistakes led to unnecessary casualties, and sometimes even turned a local victory into a defeat."
"That's a rather extreme example of yours..." Fulgrim shook his head. "There are plenty of excellent officers too. I can name a hundred names right now."
"Well."
Ferrus turned, crossed his arms over his chest, and, looking at his brother, nodded impassively. "Speak. I will listen and count."
Fulgrim stared at him in astonishment, unable to find words for a while.
Half a minute later, he took a deep breath and nodded: "You're serious, right?"
"Of course."
"Alright. Nascimento Front, Be..."
...Knock-knock-knock.
Ferrus Manus turned and went to open the door. Fulgrim, adopting a serious expression, remained seated on the couch and began listing names one by one. He knew Ferrus would remember them, but he hadn't expected to be interrupted.
...Fulgrim? Ferrus? Good evening.
A voice came from behind the open door.
The Chemosian quickly jumped up and finally exhaled with relief: "Good evening, Konrad! You came back quickly."
He couldn't help but smile and waved his brother a hand, heading towards him in a friendly manner. Ferrus silently stepped aside, letting Konrad Curze pass, and only closed the door after the latter politely thanked him.
"Are you alright?" Fulgrim asked with concern.
...I'm fine.
"So, you're not fine," Ferrus concluded calmly. "And yes, Fulgrim, you can continue listing the names. Ninety-six left."
...Are you alright?!
"What could be wrong with me?" Ferrus replied in confusion.
"I'm really fine... Thank you for letting Aquilon give me a ride, he's a good guy."
"Hmm..." Fulgrim raised an eyebrow, and his expression became a little strange. "I've never heard him praised like that before... But I'll pass on your gratitude to him anyway, Konrad. Now come here and tell me, what's going on downstairs?"
"Nothing special."
Konrad Curze shook his head, clearly trying to change the subject, but his evasiveness was too obvious. However, neither Fulgrim nor Ferrus insisted – they had already understood everything from their brother's reaction.
They decided to show respect.
***
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