Chapter 205: Just Praise Him
Inside a small meeting room aboard the Vengeful Spirit, banners embroidered with a wolf's head and crescent moon hung down in a graceful arc, golden threads woven tightly throughout. A grand chandelier shone with unceasing light above, illuminating the space in brilliance. The pristine white porcelain and gleaming gold accents combined to form the proud aesthetic of the Luna Wolves.
"Come in."
The warm voice of Horus came from beyond the door.
Abaddon opened it for Hades.
The large-framed Luna Wolves stood tall and proud, clearly trying to set a dignified tone—but unfortunately, with Hades, an actual giant, standing next to him, the attempt had limited effect.
"Thank you."
Hades nodded to Abaddon, then stepped directly into the room.
Horus was not in full armor. The Lupercal wore a training-grade platinum breastplate that gleamed under the room's bright lighting. Every movement he made shimmered with dazzling brilliance. A dozen soft, luxurious pelts lay quietly across his shoulders—offerings from cultures who had willingly submitted to him.
Compared to Mortarion—the straw-stuffed Scarecrow reeking of toxins and oppression, who paid no attention to appearances—Horus was like a proud, well-groomed grey wolf, fur sleek and radiant.
Hades prepared to kneel and salute—
"No need for that."
Horus' voice, lacking his usual commanding tone, carried a surprising touch of approachability.
"You were the hero of this campaign. There's no need for formalities. Those are the trappings of mortal bureaucrats—between brothers of the Legions, there's no need for such stiffness."
In his dealings with Mortarion, Horus had noticed that the Death Guard generally disliked ceremonial pomp, even the bare minimum one. The Lupercal accepted this.
Some brothers saw ritual as a mark of honor and respect. Others found it utterly loathsome.
Upon hearing Horus' words, Hades kept his face neutral.
When meeting a Primarch alone, it was always best to remove one's helmet—and facial expression control became critical.
"Thank you, my lord. I am Hades, an officer of the Death Guard. I come bearing the will of our Primarch, Lord Mortarion, to discuss post-Drune matters with the Luna Wolves."
Mortarion had locked himself inside his apothecary chamber and refused to come out. Clearly, his last interaction with Horus had left him mentally scarred. So this task was delegated, or in simple terms, randomly assigned to a "lucky" member of the Death Guard's command staff.
Hades, who happened to be "playing dead" in the medical room at the time, was "randomly" selected.
In some Legions, it was acceptable for a capable officer to represent the Primarch in diplomatic discussions if the Primarch themselves was unwilling—Mortarion wasn't unique in that regard.
Horus smiled—which, for Hades, was not a good thing.
The Primarch's smile was far too charismatic.
Horus knew precisely how to manipulate emotion and use it to his advantage.
"You're still too tense. No need to be so rigid, Hades. The Luna Wolves may not be as solemn as the Death Guard, but I believe a relaxed atmosphere helps warriors express more… radical ideas."
Hades sighed inwardly.
Manipulative Primarchs were terrifying.
Compared to Horus, even Mortarion or Perturabo seemed lovable, at least they wouldn't say such strange things.
"Thank you, my lord."
Hades nodded.
This wasn't like bantering with Abaddon—a conversation with a Primarch was never effortless, never free of mental strain.
Especially since Mortarion had already informed him that he'd sold Hades' information to Horus.
Now Hades had to be even more cautious.
"How is Mortarion? I recall the last time I visited the Endurance, he didn't seem well."
"Thank you for your concern, my lord. Lord Mortarion is doing well—though he has recently secluded himself in his laboratory and is not taking visitors."
To keep things vague, Hades intentionally avoided specifying that it was the apothecarium.
Horus blinked thoughtfully. "I didn't know my brother had such hobbies. Let him focus on his research, then—this war doesn't require his direct attention anymore."
Hades let out a silent sigh of relief and managed a polite smile. But then, Horus shifted the topic—and the tone.
"All thanks to you, Hades. If you hadn't led the Death Guard's charge into the capital, this campaign wouldn't have ended so quickly."
Hades' smile froze.
He had known, of course, that Horus had "watched" the recordings—but hearing it out loud still made him want to say: Mortarion, I swear to the Throne, thank you so damn much.
To be fair, being recognized by a greater warrior should be a point of genuine pride—especially when that recognition came from a Primarch, a demigod of the galaxy.
In Horus' experience, any Astartes he praised would react with overflowing pride—heads held high like little wolves, puffing out their chests and retelling their own feats with either boastful pride or faux humility.
But Hades… didn't respond like that. He simply stood there.
Horus even thought he glimpsed a trace of fatigue?
To Hades, it just wasn't necessary.
He wasn't someone who moved forward for the sake of glory.
For those who toiled in the dark and went unnoticed, such things might matter—but not for him.
Even though Horus had carefully constructed an atmosphere of commendation, Hades hadn't really allowed himself to be drawn into it.
In fact, he was starting to feel awkward.
"Thank you for your praise, my lord. I merely did what was necessary. If it would hasten the end of the war, then I would do it."
Hades didn't add anything more.
It wasn't the reaction Horus had expected, but the Primarch didn't show any displeasure. Instead, his expression softened even further.
"Such rare humility. I'd say the Death Guard are lucky to have someone like you."
"Hah, I'm starting to get jealous of Mortarion."
The Lupercal laughed heartily, then gave Hades a somewhat conspiratorial look. "After all, warriors like you aren't common. Don't worry—I promised Mortarion I'd keep it confidential."
Of course, Horus wanted to win over a powerful warrior. He admired such strength, and never held back his praise. He also hoped Hades might voluntarily reveal more about himself.
But Hades remained far too restrained—there was a caution to him, deeply buried beneath his surface calm.
Hades drew a breath inwardly and repeated Mortarion's message again.
Unfortunately, Primarchs were immune to passive-aggressive deflection—especially when they reached "ancestral god-uncle mode."
"Thank you for your understanding, my lord. I am indeed… unique. It has caused some confusion—both for myself and for the Legion."
Horus gave him a gentle smile. "Perhaps there are others among the Legions who could help answer those questions. Don't rush. You'll meet them eventually."
But in Hades' mind, most of Horus' words were categorized as political platitudes.
Horus had a well-known tendency to praise promising warriors from other Legions. So Hades instinctively dismissed the comment, slotting it in the "empty promises" column.
As far as he knew, unless one of the two missing Primarchs returned, none of the other Legions had made any significant strides in understanding Untouchables.
What Hades didn't realize, however, was that his image had already been completely distorted in Horus' eyes.
"I hope so," he replied at last.
And with the realization that his words had failed to elicit further intelligence—or foster any particular loyalty toward the Lunar Wolves—Horus smoothly shifted the conversation to the matter of Drune.
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