The Emperor was the first to stride forward.
Golden light still shimmered across his form, yet it was no longer dazzling. This radiance did not come from the reflection of his armor, but from something deeper within him—a presence made manifest. It was a light that compelled mortals to kneel, made Space Marines tighten their grip on their weapons, and left the Primarchs both proud and faintly ashamed.
Walking ahead, Perturabo noticed the Emperor's subtle "gesture." The corner of his mouth curled slightly, and he let out a faint snort—a near-inaudible rebuttal to the Emperor's psychic allure.
The Emperor's psychic presence was indeed captivating. At the very least, Perturabo could sense the intense emotional fluctuations within his Iron Warriors and the mortal attendants. The data relayed through neural cables allowed him, for the first time, to truly grasp the terrifying nature of this unreasonable power.
Perturabo strode straight into the palace. His pace was neither hurried nor slow; each step was spaced with absolute uniformity, as though calculated with perfect precision—or perhaps such "efficiency" had long since been carved into his very instincts.
The Emperor followed behind him. The others trailed after.
Stephanie and Andos silently thanked themselves for following Perturabo's orders and installing rollers beneath their feet. Otherwise, faced with the strides of these giants, they would have had to jog just to keep up—and would have made quite the spectacle of themselves.
What surprised them, however, was the silver-haired old man. Though his steps appeared slow, he remained effortlessly at the Emperor's side, his rhythm natural and utterly unremarkable.
How did he do that?
Stephanie and Andos were curious, but their attention was needed elsewhere.
Horus walked closely behind the Emperor. As the First Primarch and most favored son, every movement he made carried an innate confidence and elegance.
His platinum-gold power armor was adorned with golden laurel motifs, and a wolf-pelt cloak swayed gently in Olympia's artificial wind. His gaze toward Perturabo's back was complex—curiosity, a faint trace of caution, and that characteristic sense of responsibility belonging to an elder brother who wished to keep everything under control.
Though Perturabo's clear tendency to shut everyone out was troubling, Horus was willing to be the one to break the ice.
Beside him walked Lion El'Jonson. The Lion of the First Legion carried eyes as sharp as blades, never once relaxing his vigilance—especially when faced with the motionless Abominable Intelligences.
Their presence filled him with deep suspicion toward the entire system under Perturabo's control. The First Legion's duty stirred within him an urge to issue Exterminatus and erase this system entirely.
Leman Russ's gray hair whipped wildly in the wind. His wolf-like yellow eyes scanned the surroundings, nostrils flaring slightly as if he were smelling the world. His armor was adorned with Fenrisian totems, and at his waist hung the Spear of Russ, glinting with danger.
When he saw the neatly arrayed Iron Warriors, his lips curled into a feral grin, sharp teeth gleaming coldly.
"I like these pups," he said, his voice not loud, yet carrying through the hall. "Almost as good as the wolf cubs back on Fenris."
No one responded. Perturabo ignored him entirely.
Russ clicked his tongue, clearly bored.
Ferrus Manus did not spare a glance for the Iron Warriors or the Abominable Intelligences. Instead, his gaze fixed directly on the palace's structure—the precise seams, perfect symmetry, and the redundancy in every load-bearing node. His brow furrowed slightly, as if assessing something.
Fulgrim's armor was so exquisite it scarcely seemed meant for battle. Its flowing lines resembled frozen music, a proud phoenix embroidered upon his purple cloak, and the golden Imperial Aquila on his chest gleamed with nobility.
His gaze swept across the surroundings—the standardized armor of the Iron Warriors, the exposed conduits, the stark geometric architecture… and then his brow lifted ever so slightly.
He did not like his brother's aesthetic.
There was no flair, no distinction, no nobility, no perfection.
True, they were elite—one could tell from their equipment and bearing alone—but what was a Primarch? Could his Legion truly be forged under such uninspired standards?
Fulgrim felt he might need to "improve" his brother's taste—lest it disgrace the Imperium's image.
Vulkan was the largest among them. Even Magnus and Perturabo seemed somewhat diminished beside him. Combined with his fierce features and the snarling dragon-head engravings on his heavy green pauldrons, he looked like a merciless demon.
Yet at this moment, that fearsome giant wore a gentle—almost kind—smile.
His gaze lingered on the Iron Warriors, then shifted toward the distant city: hive-like residences, busy workers, patrol units of automata and Iron Rings. His smile softened slightly, but did not fade.
"They are fed," he murmured, almost to himself. "Clothed. Employed. That is already good."
Compared to the Imperium, Perturabo's domain seemed almost like a paradise. Vulkan truly wished Nocturne could one day be governed in such peace.
Rogal Dorn's resolute features and heavy armor made him resemble a walking fortress. The Imperial Aquila upon his back made him seem like the Imperium's living emblem.
Among his brothers, he drew even more attention than Fulgrim—at least in the eyes of mortals, though neither he nor the others realized this.
Dorn wasted no time observing his surroundings. Before the Stormbird had even fully landed, he had already begun analyzing the defensive structure.
Sloped armor plating, hidden firing points, prearranged weapon platforms—his mind processed it all at a speed beyond human comprehension, arriving at a conclusion he could respect:
This brother, in this regard, was no inferior to him.
He walked in silence, like an immovable stone.
The Lord of Macragge strode forward with steady composure. His blue armor stood out sharply against Olympia's muted tones. His gaze did not linger on structures or weapons—he was watching people.
The expressions of the Iron Warriors, the eyes of mortal attendants, the movement patterns of the automata… all fell within his scrutiny.
He noticed the palpable tension between the Emperor and Perturabo. Noticed Horus's faint frown. Noticed Russ's beast-like alertness.
In his mind, possibilities and contingencies were already forming. Such was his nature—he preferred to solve problems before they arose, rather than patch them afterward… though he excelled at that as well, and more often than not was forced into it.
Sanguinius walked beside him, his white wings—though folded—still impossible to ignore. He said nothing, quietly observing the city through psychic perception, amber eyes glimmering with something beyond pure reason.
Magnus walked with hesitation. The Crimson King's thoughts were troubled.
From the Stormbird, he had already seen much through his psychic sight.
Logic-driven automata, omnipresent automated systems, and a vast computational network covering the entire city. He knew this violated their father's prohibition—but what shocked him more was that this brother seemed utterly unconcerned. Worse still, he had dared to provoke their father openly.
How did he dare?
And the Emperor… had tolerated it?
How?
Magnus had too many unanswered questions. His thirst for knowledge gnawed at him, but he could not show it.
Alpharius hid among the Custodians, appearing as nothing more than an ordinary guard.
The Custodians remained outside with Valdor. This was not a banquet they would attend, nor was this Terra. Without the Emperor's command, they would not overstep within a Primarch's domain.
Thus they stood, uncertain. Even the Dome's administrators, accustomed to issuing commands through countless systems, found themselves at a loss—the Lord of Iron had given no instructions.
Stephanie and Andos, though outwardly composed, felt anything but calm. Walking among these giants—beings akin to gods—the psychological and visual impact was overwhelming.
Horus's charisma, the Lion's sharpness, Russ's ferocity, Ferrus's solidity, Fulgrim's splendor, Vulkan's warmth, Dorn's resolve, Guilliman's intellect, Sanguinius's perfection, Magnus's depth…
Each of them alone was enough to inspire worship.
And now, they all stood here.
Especially the Emperor at the forefront—his overwhelming presence and charisma were utterly irresistible to mortals.
Stephanie's palms grew slightly damp. She was nervous.
Andos stood beside her. This younger brother, usually absorbed in sculpture and art, now looked equally tense—yet he still tried to stand straight, refusing to show weakness before these beings.
They were falling behind.
Perturabo's palace hall had never held so many people.
No—it had never held so many gods.
The long table was arranged in a U-shape. The seat of honor naturally belonged to the Emperor. After much deliberation, Perturabo had ultimately decided to yield it to him.
Twenty-seven seats.
Every brother, plus the Emperor, had been accounted for. Malcador and Valdor were not forgotten. His sister and Andos had their places. Even Erda—after long hesitation—had been included.
The Emperor and Malcador were unsurprised by the arrangement. They approved. This was a good sign.
As host, Perturabo stood at the Emperor's right. He watched his brothers enter one by one, each bearing a different expression.
Horus entered first. His gaze swept over the table—the precisely arranged utensils, the angled placement of wine glasses, the complete absence of unnecessary decoration.
Then he looked at Perturabo and smiled, nodding.
"You've put a lot of thought into this, brother."
"Efficiency," Perturabo replied expressionlessly. "Unnecessary movement wastes time."
Horus's smile did not falter, though a flicker of thought passed through his eyes. He took his seat—the first to the Emperor's left, opposite Malcador.
The Lion followed behind him. He said nothing, only giving Perturabo a long, penetrating look as he passed.
That gaze held many things—scrutiny, evaluation, caution… and perhaps a trace of acknowledgment.
Perturabo did not avoid it.
They locked eyes for a second.
Then the Lion looked away and moved to his seat.
Leman Russ entered third. He strode straight to the table, picked up a red crystal goblet, and frowned as he examined it.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice echoing through the hall.
"A wine glass," Perturabo replied.
Russ sneered slightly, as if about to toss it aside—but the dangerous aura emanating from Perturabo made him pause. He set it back down.
"A wine glass?"
He burst into loud, boisterous laughter.
"Back home, we use these to feed babies milk!"
He unhooked a massive metal flask from his waist and slammed it onto the table.
Bang!
"This is a proper drinking vessel!"
"I'll use this. Let your crystal toys hold juice."
Perturabo did not react.
He ignored Russ's provocative gaze completely.
Russ had expected some response, but the lack of one left him bored—and faintly slighted. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, finally sitting down with little enthusiasm.
Ferrus Manus entered.
His gaze immediately fell upon the tableware—the metallic sheen of the cutlery, the polish along the plate edges, the crystalline clarity of the goblets…
Ferrus picked up a dining knife and lightly flicked the blade with his finger, listening to the clear resonance it produced.
"Excellent craftsmanship," he praised.
He could tell these had most likely been forged by Perturabo himself—and the skill was superb.
"Thank you."
A faint smile appeared on Ferrus's otherwise cold face before he took his seat.
Dorn did not speak to Perturabo. He merely glanced at him, then began examining the structure of the hall. After about ten seconds, he gave a small nod—load-bearing walls with a safety factor of 2.3.
Acceptable.
He then walked straight to his seat.
Guilliman entered next, with Sanguinius behind him. The Lord of Macragge paused by the table and gently ran his fingers along the leather-wrapped back of a chair.
"Fine craftsmanship," he said.
"But you should add lumbar support here. Ergonomic data suggests that banquets typically last over three hours, and sixty-seven percent of attendees will unconsciously adjust their posture after two."
His words left everyone momentarily stunned.
Even Perturabo had not expected that. Guilliman was always… unexpectedly precise.
"I'll make a note of it. Thank you for the suggestion."
Perturabo did not particularly enjoy the feeling, but Guilliman possessed a persuasive charm. In matters of speech, he seemed to have inherited a trace of the Emperor's charisma—people instinctively believed him.
Sanguinius stepped forward and extended his hand. Perturabo grasped it, feeling as though he had taken hold of something warm and luminous.
"Thank you for your hospitality," the Angel said.
"The defensive structure of this palace is impressive. I observed it for quite some time before landing—there are no blind spots. You accounted for both aerial strikes and ground assaults, didn't you?"
"You can tell?"
Perturabo was slightly surprised.
"Fortress construction is a required discipline on Baal," Sanguinius replied with a smile.
"Though my people rely more on faith to reinforce their walls, while you use mathematics and physics. Each has its merits."
When Magnus approached, his gaze did not linger on Perturabo. Instead, he looked deeper into the hall—at the concealed computational arrays, the logic-engine terminals, the steel barriers beyond the reach of psychic perception.
"Your city… is very quiet," he said, a hint of complexity in his voice.
"There's no psychic echo. I can't 'hear' anything."
"That was intentional. No need to concern yourself—please, take your seat."
Magnus felt uneasy. Under normal circumstances, he would have taken great interest in the artworks within the palace, but now he had no such inclination.
Instinctively, he found himself worrying about this brother.
Fulgrim entered last.
He had timed it precisely. In his relentless pursuit of perfection, he held himself to standards so exacting they bordered on obsessive.
To others, it might seem almost pathological—but no one would openly criticize a Primarch's behavior. The Emperor and Malcador certainly did not care for such trivialities.
Ferrus had been the first to notice, but as both brother and close friend, he chose to overlook it. Fulgrim simply sought perfection.
Guilliman and Horus had noticed as well—but what of it? Did it matter?
Horus himself had his own quirks. Compared to that, what was Fulgrim's behavior?
Guilliman, for his part, felt their relationship was not yet close enough to warrant pointing out such flaws.
Fulgrim's deep-purple armor was adorned with lavish gold and set with violet gemstones, its flowing lines resembling an opulent yet elegant ceremonial garment.
This is a desecration of power armor.
That thought had already crossed Perturabo's mind the moment he first saw it.
And now, Fulgrim's mannerisms only deepened his discomfort.
"My dear brother," Fulgrim said, his voice like velvet brushing against silk.
"Your taste… surprises me."
"What do you mean?"
Not only Perturabo, but even the Emperor and the others frowned slightly.
"I mean this precision within simplicity."
Fulgrim extended a finger, lightly tracing the edge of the tablecloth.
"The perfect drape, the balanced folds. This is a form of symmetrical aesthetics—I quite appreciate it."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"But there is still room for improvement. If you are willing, I could make this place far more visually refined and noble—its impact greatly enhanced."
"I refuse."
Perturabo's cold reply shattered some of Fulgrim's illusions, leaving him visibly disappointed.
Stephanie and Andos sat at opposite ends of the table. Sitting among these demigods made them feel as though they were perched on needles, as if countless invisible thorns pressed against their backs.
Their eyes lingered on the Primarchs. Compared to Perturabo's chess pieces, these beings exuded far greater majesty—especially the golden giant seated at the center.
Only now did they truly understand why Perturabo had always said his pieces were imperfect.
This kind of presence could never be replicated by lifeless constructs.
The banquet began without announcement or ceremony. Mortal attendants stepped forward, serving wine and dishes to the demigods.
Horus spoke quietly with the Lion beside him, a gentle smile on his face, while the Lion maintained his characteristic guarded distance.
Leman Russ had already opened his metal flask. The rich aroma of alcohol spread instantly—even Stephanie, seated at the far end of the U-shaped table, could smell it.
Fenrisian mead carried a powerful scent, and those who had tasted it often held… less-than-pleasant memories of it. A faint trace of distaste appeared in the Emperor's eyes as he lifted his crystal goblet and drained it in one go.
"Now that's what you call a drink!"
Russ laughed loudly, shoving Ferrus beside him.
"Brother, have a taste—guarantee you won't regret it."
Ferrus's iron hands reflected cold light under the lamps. He declined.
"No. Alcohol affects my neural responses. It would make me sluggish."
"Boring."
Russ clicked his tongue, then turned the flask toward Perturabo.
"I don't drink either," Perturabo said, shaking his head.
Undeterred, Russ turned to Guilliman.
"Thank you, brother," Guilliman replied with a smile, "but Olympia's wine is more than sufficient for today. Perhaps another time—I would gladly bring Macragge's finest to Fenris."
Fulgrim caught the scent of the mead and looked displeased.
"My dear brother, your drink reminds me of a world the Third Legion once conquered. The slaves there, after being burned… smelled much the same."
"Tch. Bunch of picky lot."
Annoyed that his goodwill had been rejected, Russ lifted the flask and drained it in one go.
The appetizers were served—grilled Olympia vegetables paired with a local mountain fish of delicate flavor. Perturabo had specifically ordered this, using local ingredients as a gesture of welcome.
Guilliman methodically separated every fishbone with knife and fork, arranging them neatly along the edge of his plate.
Russ simply grabbed a fillet with his hands, tore off half, and stuffed it into his mouth, crunching the bones audibly. Across from him, Horus frowned slightly but said nothing.
Sanguinius ate with an elegance that resembled ritual. Noticing the gaze of a serving attendant, he looked up and offered a gentle, sincere smile.
The maid's face flushed. She lowered her head and hurried away.
Despite his massive frame, Vulkan ate calmly, even leisurely.
Ferrus and Perturabo began their first real conversation—on the heat treatment of metals.
They debated for ten minutes. Ferrus argued for segmented quenching to ensure varying toughness across armor sections, while Perturabo insisted that full quenching combined with localized tempering was the more scientifically optimal solution.
Neither convinced the other, but both men's eyes lit up.
Fulgrim, watching, felt a twinge of jealousy. Even his motion of lifting the crystal goblet grew slightly stiff.
"When the banquet ends, I want to see your forges," Ferrus said.
"You may," Perturabo agreed immediately.
"But I want to hear the story behind those iron hands."
Ferrus paused, then smiled.
"Very well."
The force with which Fulgrim cut his meat increased by three degrees.
Dorn joined their discussion, shifting the topic to the optimal thickness of fortress walls.
"If facing an Ork assault, the primary wall should be forty meters thick," Dorn stated.
"Forty-two is optimal," Perturabo countered.
Neither yielded.
"At forty-two meters, it can withstand one additional impact without requiring structural repair. That's the result of materials analysis."
"I will recalculate," Dorn said after a brief silence.
Guilliman attempted to introduce logistical constraints into the argument, sparking an entirely new debate—this time on the relationship between supply lines and wall thickness.
Vulkan occasionally interjected with suggestions regarding material forging.
Horus watched the scene, his smile growing more genuine.
This was what he wanted—brothers united, working together for humanity's future.
The Lion, however, never took his eyes off Perturabo. Instinct told him there was something about this brother—something he could not fully understand, yet could not help but distrust.
The main course was served: thick cuts of meat from a massive Olympia beast, accompanied by rich black sauce and various garnishes.
"Welcome back, Perturabo, my fourth son."
The Emperor raised his glass. All followed suit.
"For you, my sons."
His gaze swept across the Primarchs.
"For the glory of the Imperium. For the future of mankind."
He drained his glass, and the Primarchs did the same.
Mortal attendants stepped forward to refill their cups.
Fulgrim rose, lifting his newly filled glass.
"To our host, our brother Perturabo—thank you for this splendid banquet."
The others raised their glasses. Just as Perturabo was about to respond, Fulgrim continued:
"Though I must say, the arrangement of these utensils reminds me somewhat of a Legion mess hall. But perhaps this is your aesthetic? A… disciplined simplicity?"
A faint smile touched Fulgrim's lips. There was no malice in it.
Perturabo set down his glass.
"I value efficiency and practicality. I designed this palace for defense, not to waste space on decorative excess. Such things are a disgraceful waste."
Fulgrim's smile froze.
Horus and Guilliman instinctively moved to smooth things over. Ferrus considered speaking up for his two friends. Vulkan and Dorn had yet to fully process the exchange. Sanguinius was already thinking of how to comfort them both.
But the Emperor set down his knife and fork.
The motion was almost soundless—yet it carried immense weight.
"My son," he said calmly, "you seem to harbor some anger at our arrival. Is your grievance with us… or with me?"
The atmosphere of the banquet instantly grew heavy.
The mortal attendants felt as though dark clouds pressed upon their hearts. Stephanie and Andos barely dared to breathe.
Before the Emperor, everyone felt the pressure.