"Grievances? That's a bit of an exaggeration. You and I have never met before, and I'm only just meeting my brothers for the first time. What grievances could there be?"
"On the contrary, I'm rather more concerned about what you intend to do to my Olympia."
Perturabo's tone was flat.
The knife and fork worked across the steak. Perturabo cut a piece of meat, combining it with some vegetables before chewing. The sound of his mastication was grating.
"Brother, you've misunderstood — we only came to see our newly returned brother."
Horus spoke quickly. The last thing he wanted was for this brother, just returned to the fold, to become estranged from the Imperium over some misunderstanding.
"Is that so? Yet your bearing doesn't look much like a welcome. Don't tell me that the way to greet a returning Primarch is to arrive fully armed and menacing, and then use his children as leverage."
The words changed every face in the room. They knew full well what their original purpose had been, and had assumed this brother would treat it as an accident — that things would smooth over with some mingling. Clearly, that assumption was wrong.
"Brother, Father and the rest of us had no such intention," Horus was the first to speak.
"That's right. Our original intention was only to guard against certain contingencies. We absolutely had no desire to harm you or your children. Brother, please don't overthink it."
Sanguinius rose to his feet. His wings spread slightly, soft radiance illuminating the surrounding space.
"Brother," he said, his voice like celestial music.
"We came here today precisely because Father and all of us care deeply about you."
The Great Angel was perfection itself. Every word he spoke felt like a warm breeze. No wonder he had always gotten along so well with every brother.
Perturabo's cerulean eyes fixed on this brother of his. The angel's face was beautiful enough to move one to tenderness.
"I didn't expect even you would lie."
Perturabo's words made the angel's expression fall. The words had indeed come from sincere feeling — yet their earlier actions had equally been a betrayal of that sincerity.
"You're too unstable, Perturabo. This was simply a necessary precaution."
It was Malcador who finally broke his silence.
The Emperor had been about to speak, but the intervention of his old friend made him swallow his words.
He didn't know how to handle this situation.
But he had clearly made an error in judgment by staying silent.
"So that's your justification for bringing my children here to use as a threat against me?"
Perturabo did not bother to respond to the remark directly, but his words drew the Emperor's gaze back to him.
Malcador's words had evidently struck a nerve among the Primarchs. Even Dorn and Russ found themselves feeling a flicker of displeasure toward this man they had always held in esteem.
Stephanie and Andos couldn't understand what had happened — why had the atmosphere turned so razor-sharp so suddenly?
"It seems you truly do harbor deep prejudice against me, Perturabo."
The Emperor's words brought silence to the room.
"For certain actions of mine that may have struck you as deeply offensive, I apologize, my son."
"You have returned. Whatever we did before has only proven that our earlier worries were unfounded."
Perturabo was hardly going to be fooled by a few honeyed words from the Emperor. Only a fool would take him at face value.
"But—"
Of course. Perturabo had expected this.
"You have touched something forbidden. You know what I mean."
The Emperor's voice dropped lower. Most of the Primarchs didn't dare meet his eyes directly — they had never seen this side of their father before.
Magnus lowered his head, unwilling to look at the Emperor. He knew better than any of them what the Emperor meant: those abominable intelligences, those logic engines, those automated systems woven throughout the entire city.
"Yes. I used AI. I used abominable intelligence. I let the Iron Circle manage the city, let logic engines govern the defenses, let automated production lines run without pause, day and night. And furthermore — I intend to keep doing so."
"Do you know what I had originally planned? To have those abominable intelligences serve you all at dinner. But I didn't like the idea in the end — because I didn't want the palace I'd painstakingly built to suffer any damage from it. That would have made me very irritable."
Perturabo held the Emperor's gaze. The Emperor's eyes grew dangerous.
"Knowing what happened before — why would you still do this?"
The Emperor rose to his feet. In that moment his figure seemed immeasurably vast — not physically, but in sheer presence. The entire hall seemed to tremble within the flickering golden aura that radiated from him.
"You know the Men of Iron Rebellion."
The Emperor spoke, his voice low as thunder.
"You know what price humanity paid for it."
"I know."
Perturabo rose as well, meeting the Emperor's gaze eye to eye, his own expression utterly devoid of emotion.
"But I also know something else. The Imperial Truth you champion has forbidden abominable intelligence, forbidden religion, forbidden everything you consider dangerous. But have you ever considered — the truly dangerous thing is not the tool, but the one who wields it?"
"The Men of Iron didn't rebel without cause. You know better than I do how long humanity used them before the rebellion. Why did they suddenly turn? Why did human science and history suffer such a catastrophic rupture during that era?"
"But set all that aside."
Perturabo summoned a logic engine. A vast display of light materialized before the hall, showing the current state of every mortal settlement across the Olympia system.
"These people, living under my governance — they have food to eat, clothes to wear, work to do, and a future to look forward to. They will not starve because of bureaucratic corruption. They will not be displaced because of an official's incompetence."
"My AI is more efficient, more just, and more reliable than your bureaucratic apparatus. On what grounds do you forbid it? On the grounds of your endless exploitation? Your crushing taxation? Or are we supposed to rely on your lumbering, bloated administrative officials?"
There was a thread of mockery in Perturabo's words.
"They once nearly destroyed humanity."
The Emperor's gaze remained dangerous.
"That was under circumstances where no one could control them."
Perturabo did not yield.
"I can control them. My logic engines obey my every command. My Iron Circle will not betray me — because they know the cost of betrayal would be utter annihilation."
"I am capable of this. I have absolute confidence in it."
"I have the strength and the standing to say so."
Perturabo's near-wild declaration made the Emperor's expression darken like a storm.
Russ had already moved his hand to the Spear of Russ at his hip. Dorn's left hand likewise rested on Pale Warden. Liones had gripped his sword hilt. Vulkan's hammer had begun to hum faintly. Even the Great Angel's expression had gone grave, the Spear of Telesto coiled with readiness.
Stephanie and Andos had gone white as death, desperately wanting to say something to defuse the tension — but the overwhelming pressure bearing down from all directions had locked their throats shut. They could barely keep their limbs from going limp, let alone lift a fork.
"So then — what of it?"
Perturabo looked at the Emperor. The smile at the corner of his mouth carried a thread of provocation. The postures of his brothers didn't register in his eyes at all.
"Father. What will you do with me? Kill me? Could you actually kill me?"
"Or do you think that all of you, together, could kill me? Or perhaps you'd stoop to taking my sister and brother hostage — just as you've used my children to keep me from making any sudden moves."
The Emperor said nothing. He only looked at this son of his — this son he had made with his own hands, who had slipped entirely beyond his control.
In Perturabo, he saw so many things: genius, obsession, arrogance, loneliness — and that quality possessed only by those who are truly powerful, a contempt for all rules.
And something else. Something the Emperor could not deny. Correctness. Because Perturabo was not wrong. His people were thriving.
His world had been built better than the vast majority of Imperial worlds. His armies were strong, his technology advanced, his rule stable, his people's lives secure and comfortable.
If he were not a Primarch — if he were merely an ordinary ruler — the Emperor might simply have annihilated him utterly. An Exterminatus to scour every corner of this system, to reduce it to dust in the most literal sense.
But Perturabo was a Primarch. He was the Emperor's son. He was part of the Emperor's grand design for humanity's resurgence. And he had already deviated far too greatly from that design.
"None of what you have described will come to pass."
The almost unbearable tension was finally broken by the Emperor. His voice carried something in it that Perturabo could not quite interpret.
"You are my son. Commander of the Fourth Legion. Crusade Marshal of the Imperium. You stand on our side — you fight for humanity."
Perturabo was quiet for a moment. Then he laughed — not the mocking or provocative laughter from before, but something far more complicated. A laugh carrying a certain relief.
"The way I fight for humanity is different from yours. I won't lead my Legion to conquer the galaxy. I won't plant the Imperial Aquila on every world. I won't let your bureaucratic apparatus squeeze those who've just been liberated."
"I will remain here — in Olympia. I will build my world into a true fortress."
"From this foundation, I will transform every territory I reclaim into a part of my domain."
"If the day truly comes when humanity stands at the very edge of extinction, then I will step forward. I will use my armies, my weapons, my technology — I will fight for humanity."
Perturabo looked at the Emperor.
"But right now? The Great Crusade? For Imperium and humanity?" A pause. "I'm not interested."
"I'd much rather shut myself in my laboratory and work on new inventions than lead my Legion to pay a heavy price for these vague and distant ideals — without even having to worry about all sorts of other things besides."
"I live on Olympia comfortably. Freely. I neither hunger for glory nor need anyone's praise. I certainly don't need the cheering and reverence of a populace that doesn't even understand what it's cheering for."
The Emperor was silent for a long time. Then he nodded.
Everyone except Perturabo was stunned by the Emperor's decision.
What did this mean? Was the Fourth Legion simply going to fade out of the Great Crusade from now on?
"The Great Crusade will continue. You may absent yourself from it, but your Legion must go. That is my final demand."
Perturabo was slightly taken aback.
After a long silence, he agreed to the condition.
"What I need to accomplish may not succeed. I think — if things truly develop to a point of no return, I hope you will be willing to stand up."
The Emperor's words reached Perturabo through a psychic transmission.
Perturabo sat back down. It was as good as an acceptance of the "bargain."
The mood of the banquet shifted. No one spoke further, but the knife-edge tension had dissipated.
In its place was something complex and difficult to name — understanding? Acceptance? Or merely... exhausted compromise?
The smiles had left every face. Even Russ and Guilliman wore no expression now. Stephanie and Andos's hearts were still hammering. The mortal attendants had long since retreated — what place did they have remaining in a scene like this?
The atmosphere of the banquet had changed. Not eased — solidified, like auramite suddenly cooled, the surface still, the interior still holding the embers of tremendous heat.
No one spoke. The only sound in the hall was the crisp, rhythmic contact of cutlery against plate — clear, steady, cold as the void beyond Olympia's rings.
Perturabo sat at his place, picked up his knife and fork, and resumed cutting the steak he had not yet finished.
His movements were precise as always. The angle of each cut, the depth of each stroke — utterly unchanged from before, as if the confrontation that could have shaken the stars had been nothing but an appetizer.
His brothers could not manage the same.
Horus held his wine glass but did not drink. His gaze moved between Perturabo and the Emperor, and the face that always wore a warm smile was, for once, completely expressionless.
The First-Returned's mind was running at full speed. He needed to reassess this brother. Reassess their father's stance. Reassess what all of this meant for the shape of things to come.
In that, he was no less capable than Guilliman.
Guilliman looked down at the food on his plate without touching a bite.
His mind was constructing new models. If the Fourth Legion did not participate in the Great Crusade, the Crusade's logistical supply lines would lose an important node. If Perturabo remained in the rear building a defensive architecture, the defensive profile of the Imperium's eastern fringe would be fundamentally altered. If their father had tacitly permitted this sort of "independent kingdom" to exist, would other brothers begin to—
Guilliman immediately cut off that dangerous line of thought. But his rational mind's tendency to extrapolate made it impossible to suppress entirely.
He gave a quiet, bitter smile, lifted his red crystal wine glass, and drained it in one swallow.
Leman Russ, unusually, had stopped drinking. He set the great metal flagon on the table, crossed his arms, and fixed his amber wolf-eyes on Perturabo.
He was assessing — assessing this brother's combat capability, assessing his threat level, assessing how the Wolves of Fenris would bring him down if one day it came to that.
The results of his assessment were deeply uncomfortable.
Russ turned and looked at Lion El'Jonson across the table. The Lion's expression was, as always, grave and deep — but Russ could tell from the faint tension in his jaw that the "eldest brother's" mood was no calmer than his own.
The Lion caught Russ's gaze, glanced at him briefly, then both looked away.
The relationship between the First and Sixth Legions had never been particularly warm. But in this moment, they shared at least one recognition: this brother was extraordinarily dangerous.
Dorn wasn't looking at Perturabo, wasn't looking at anyone. He simply ate the food on his plate, methodical, mechanical, without feeling.
But his mind had never stopped working. He was recalculating Olympia's defensive structures. Reassessing those concealed fire positions. Rethinking what price the Imperial Fists would pay to break Olympia if Perturabo ever became an enemy. The answer made him set down his fork.
Vulkan was the most visibly restless. The dark-skinned giant looked at the Emperor, then at Perturabo, his broad, fierce face written over with confusion and worry.
He didn't understand the complex political calculations. He didn't understand the arguments about abominable intelligences and forbidden technologies. He only knew that brothers ought to live in harmony — ought to fight together for humanity — but now everything seemed to have become impossibly complicated.
He opened his mouth to say something to ease the tension, but Ferrus, at his side, quietly pressed a hand to his arm.
He gave a slight shake of his head. Not yet.
Vulkan exhaled, and resigned himself to enjoying the food — though every dish that had tasted magnificent before was now ash in his mouth.
Fulgrim was cutting a piece of vegetable with exquisite elegance, every movement flowing, as if nothing had happened at all. But to a careful observer, his knife and fork paused a fraction longer than usual each time they touched the plate.
Few could tell what he was thinking. Fulgrim's face wore its perpetual enchanting smile, utterly impenetrable.
Sanguinius sat quietly where he was. Those amber eyes watched Perturabo. The angel's expression held no anger, no fear — only something so complex it bordered on compassion.
Even though, moments ago, he had been prepared to drive the Spear of Telesto through this brother's heart.
Magnus kept his head down, not daring to look at anyone. When Perturabo had spoken those words, his psychic senses had caught a glimpse of something.
A colossal factory operating in the depths of the warp, belching black smoke, a titanic machine-god bound within it, countless black specks moving through its vast chambers. Magnus couldn't see clearly — his powers were not yet sufficient to look directly at the nature of abominable craft — but it was clear that Perturabo had no intention of harming him.
The power of this brother was far beyond anything Magnus had imagined. He was acutely aware of the enormous gulf between himself and Perturabo now.
Time passed in silence.
Five minutes. Ten. Half an hour.
No one spoke. The crisp sound of cutlery was the only thing that moved in the room. The pressure of that silence was almost dense enough to touch, pressing down on every heart.
The Emperor lifted his wine glass, swirled it once, and set it quietly back on the table.
Everyone looked up at him.
"The banquet continues."
His voice carried an almost inexplicable authority. Though Perturabo was the host, it was as if at his word the mortal attendants came streaming back through the doors, continuing to serve wine and food.
"There are some things I need to make clear to you."
He looked at Perturabo.
"Your AI. Your logic engines. Your automated systems. I can tolerate them — but only under one condition."
"You cannot allow them to lose control. If ever a day comes when any of your machines begins to turn against humanity, you must personally destroy it. If they lose control on a mass scale, you must personally destroy the entire system."
"If you cannot do so at that time, I will come and do it for you."
His tone was calm, but those final words — "do it for you" — carried a weight that no one present could mistake.
Perturabo was silent for a moment. Then he nodded.
"Agreed."
The Emperor then looked at each Primarch gathered at the table.
"What has transpired today goes no further. The matter of the Fourth Primarch not participating in the Great Crusade remains known only to those present."
"Publicly, it will be announced that the Fourth Primarch is engaged in full-scale iteration and upgrading of the Imperium's weapons and equipment — forging better arms for all those on the Great Crusade. The Fourth Legion possesses certain special privileges under particular circumstances, as a matter of standard military deployment. No explanation will be required."
Guilliman's brow furrowed slightly. He understood what the Emperor was doing — giving Perturabo a dignified position within the Imperial structure, while avoiding setting a precedent that other Primarchs might seek to emulate.
But would it actually work? He said nothing. This was not the moment for questions.
The Emperor's gaze returned to Perturabo last.
"Your Legion will receive standard supply and command. The worlds under your dominion will pay taxes to the Imperium. Beyond that, I will not interfere in your methods of governance. This is the greatest concession I can offer you."
Perturabo looked at him. In those cerulean eyes, complex emotions flickered.
"Deal."
It was Russ who broke the silence first — not because he lacked tact, but because he felt that since their father had spoken, there was no reason to stay taut any longer. And besides, it was simply his nature.
"Brother, you've got a fine place here."
He lifted the great metal flagon and raised it toward Perturabo.
"Bit oppressive, maybe, but that steak was excellent. On par with anything the cooks at the Palace back on Terra could manage."
"Here — have some of this. Fenrisian vintage. Guaranteed to warm up this frozen palace of yours."
He slid the flagon across the table toward Perturabo. It glided smoothly over the polished surface and stopped precisely in front of him — fifteen centimeters from his plate, at a perfect angle.
Perturabo looked down at the flagon, then looked up at Russ. The Lord of Winter and War wore that roguishly careless grin of his, but what flickered in his eyes was genuine warmth.
Perturabo picked up the flagon, poured a cup. The amber liquid swirled in the red crystal glass, carrying a sharp, rich scent. He raised the cup, brought it to his nose, and drank it in one go.
The burning liquid slid down his throat and detonated like a fire in his stomach.
Russ let out a roar of laughter, loud enough to make the chandeliers above them sway.
"Ha! Outstanding! You're the third person to drink Fenrisian mjød for the first time without flinching!"
"Oh? Who were the others?"
Russ grinned and pointed toward the Emperor, then glanced at a visibly awkward Guilliman.
"The first time he drank it, his face went green — but he drained the whole cup and then said, perfectly composed, that it was quite good."
Guilliman smiled ruefully.
"That was the most memorable drink of my life."
"Even Ferrus couldn't hold it together, but he managed. You have to respect that."
Russ said with a teasing lilt.
A round of low laughter moved through the table. Not loud, but enough to push out the last of the cold that had lingered in the hall.
Vulkan seized the opening.
"Brother — how did you design the heating system in this palace? It feels even warmer in here than on Nocturne."
Perturabo looked at him. A flicker of interest moved through his eyes.
"Geothermal circulation. Olympia's planetary core is more active than most worlds. I directed the heat upward through deep bore-wells throughout the city, supplemented by plasma-assisted heating — maintaining energy efficiency while achieving uniform temperature control across the entire domain."
Vulkan's eyes lit up. Already red as rubies, they now burned brighter than red agate.
"Deep bore-wells? How deep?"
"Seventy-three kilometers. We drilled through the upper crust to the edge of the asthenosphere. Temperatures there reach thirteen hundred degrees Celsius — but through multi-layer insulation and heat exchange systems, the thermal efficiency can be controlled to—"
Vulkan was committing every word to memory.
Dorn, listening from nearby, could not help but speak up.
"What materials are the insulating layers made from? What's the pressure tolerance rating?"
Perturabo glanced at him, then called up a small data-slate from the logic engine, entered several figures, and passed it across to Dorn.
Dorn took it, studied it for a moment, then looked up. An expression of near-shock crossed his face.
"All of this — you designed and developed it yourself? Alone?"
"Yes. Took a year. Failed twenty-two times. But the result was worth it."
Dorn was quiet for a moment, then solemnly passed the data-slate back to Perturabo.
"I want a copy of this technology. To apply to the Phalanx."
"You may have it. But you'll need to exchange your fortress design schematics for it."
"Done."
Dorn didn't hesitate for a moment.
Horus watched this exchange, and the smile returned to his face — warm as it had always been. He raised his glass toward everyone.
"For Imperium and humanity."
Glasses lifted across the table, meeting in the air.
The banquet continued deep into the night. When the last dessert was taken away, when the last bottle was opened, when the last topic reached a pause — the Primarchs began to take their leave one by one.
Ferrus Manus was the first to go. He was heading to Perturabo's forge. He had already been desperate to see it.
Perturabo dispatched an Iron Warrior to show him the way.
"Look at whatever you like. The plasma furnace might give you a surprise or two."
Ferrus smiled and nodded, then disappeared into the corridor depths of the palace.
Dorn was second. He needed to return to the Phalanx and recalculate the parameters for that system — but before he left, he stopped in front of Perturabo and said, with great deliberateness:
"Tomorrow morning, I will bring the schematics."
Vulkan and the others departed in turn. Fulgrim gave Perturabo an elegant farewell bow, the formality of it so exquisite that Perturabo found himself watching a moment longer than intended.
Guilliman paused before Perturabo as he was leaving, standing there briefly.
"Brother, I know you don't trust us. But I want you to know — the gates of the Thirteenth Legion and Ultramar are always open to you. Whether for trade, technological exchange, or... any other need you might have."
"You've now experienced Olympia. Perhaps someday you might come to Macragge and look around. Whenever you wish — you are welcome at any time. I will prepare the highest standard of welcome for you."
"Thank you."
Perturabo said it. It was the first time he had said those words all night.
Guilliman smiled, then turned and left.
Magnus hesitated, then also came to stand before Perturabo. Normally so capable of speaking at length, he was unusually sparse with words tonight.
He opened his mouth, seemed to want to say something — and ultimately only nodded, then left quickly.
When Russ left, he clapped Perturabo on the shoulder with enough force to shatter a Custodian's skull.
"Brother — next time, come to Fenris. I'll treat you to the best mjød we have."
Russ departed with a booming laugh.
The Lion was the last to go. He stood before Perturabo in silence for a long time.
His gaze was sharp as a blade, as though he meant to cut through to whatever lay at the core of Perturabo and see what was truly hidden there.
Perturabo didn't look away. The two of them faced each other without speaking — and in the end, the Lion left without a single word.
"Brother — if you ever have any questions about taking command of a Legion, you can come to me. I think I might be able to offer some help."
Horus lingered, speaking to Perturabo as the Emperor and Malcador departed, and then fell in behind them.
"I think I will."
Horus gave a small smile and followed the Emperor.
"Father."
His voice dropped low.
"Is this brother... stable enough? Or—"
He didn't finish. But the Emperor understood.
"He will be humanity's last line of defense."
Horus was taken aback.
"When everything crumbles, and everyone else has chosen to give up — he will still be standing at humanity's back."
"Why?"
"Because that is the kind of man he is. He says he doesn't care — but when the moment that truly matters arrives, he will never retreat."
"He is worthy of our trust, Horus."
The Emperor and Malcador walked in the direction of the Stormbird.
Horus stood where he was, watching until the shadow of the Stormbird had vanished into the sky.
Only three remained in the hall now: Perturabo, Stephanie, and Andos. The Iron Warriors removed the tableware in silence. The automata cleaned the floor without sound. Everything proceeded in precise order.
Stephanie stood, walked to Perturabo's side, and without a word, gently took his hand.
"Sister — did that frighten you?"
Perturabo said quietly.
"A little."
Stephanie's voice was slightly rough.
Perturabo looked down at her. In those cerulean eyes — where all the sharpness and provocation had been — there was now only a deep weariness, and a thread of remorse.
"I'm sorry. I was somewhat rash."
Stephanie shook her head. Then she stood on her toes, reached up, and touched his head — the way she used to when they were small. But the difference in their sizes made it impossible now.
Only after Perturabo had compressed himself back down with his psychic power did she finally manage to reach.
"You're my brother. Whatever happens — I'm here."
Andos came over as well, and stood at Perturabo's side without speaking. His presence alone said everything about where he stood.
Perturabo looked at them, and something complex moved through his heart.
"Go on — both of you get some rest. We have a great deal to do tomorrow."
"Mm."
Stephanie and Andos disappeared around the bend of the corridor.
Perturabo stood where he was, watching their retreating figures for a long time before he moved.
Then he walked outside.
He tilted his head back and looked up at the brilliant galaxy. The great spiral still turned as ever — though now it held no great power over Perturabo.
The vast Imperial fleet still lay in his harbor. The lights of those vessels were like stars, illuminating Olympia's night sky. Somewhere on those ships, his brothers were each turning over the events of the evening in their own minds.
He didn't know what the future held. He didn't know whether the Emperor would truly keep his word. He didn't know whether Chaos would move against him at the most unexpected hour. He didn't know where those brothers of his would ultimately walk.
But at least — in this moment — Perturabo felt that coming here had not been entirely without merit.
He stood here. Stood outside his own palace. On his own world. Beside his own family. That was enough.
He turned and went back inside. There were preparations to make for his reintegration into the Imperium — particularly the matter of the Mechanicum, which was the most pressing issue of all.
Olympia's rings glimmered with a faint, quiet light, like countless eyes watching — bearing witness to this solitary, formidable soul.