Chapter 246: Are You a Psyker?
"Welcome, my brother."
"It has been too long."
Sanguinius, wearing his gentle smile, was the first to step forward. Opposite him, Guilliman immediately answered with a broad and radiant smile of his own. The two exchanged a few words of empty courtesy.
Normally, the Angel disliked such things, but he also knew that these polite greetings gave Guilliman a sense of stability and comfort.
Perhaps it was because the Angel's radiance was so dazzling that Magnus paused in his eloquent conversation, politely waiting for Sanguinius and Guilliman. The Crimson King was in good spirits, and so he patiently focused his attention on the Angel, who was just as brilliant as Magnus remembered.
The Angel, too, possessed a measure of psychic talent. And in front of other Legions—especially those who could perceive the Warp—the Thousand Sons refrained from releasing their tutelaries.
"This is our brother, Mortarion."
The Angel gave a meaningful blink as he stepped aside, and only then did the others notice the figure beside his radiant wings—Mortarion, who radiated an aura of death.
Guilliman faltered almost imperceptibly, then swiftly composed himself and warmly introduced himself.
Magnus, meanwhile, regarded Mortarion with a scrutinizing gaze, but Mortarion was long accustomed to such stares and simply ignored the towering, red-skinned giant.
"I am Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the XIII Legion Ultramarines. It is a pleasure to meet you, my brother. New bonds are always a joy."
Mortarion replied dryly, "Primarch of the XIV Legion, Death Guard."
Guilliman extended his hand with a smile, hoping for a handshake. Sanguinius, standing nearby, looked on with a smile, while Dorn stood with folded arms, observing without mockery.
"Another brother returned. It is a pity we could not meet until now, but the good news is that we have plenty of time to know each other better."
Mortarion realized, with some bewilderment, that they truly wanted him to join this circle that felt so strange to him.
A circle named kinship, draped in gilded finery.
He remembered the feeling Horus had given him—the searing warmth of brotherhood, that unbidden kindness, that sudden, burning enthusiasm.
And he remembered, too, the truth he had realized then: that gold always decays, and thrones are fated to tarnish.
All that is beautiful must fade.
Mortarion fell into silence once more. He did not notice that, as he instinctively averted his gaze, Guilliman glanced toward the Angel with a silent question.
Sanguinius gave a slight shake of his head.
Guilliman said nothing more. Magnus, however, let out a loud sigh.
From Mortarion's perspective, everything at the banquet seemed clad in a discordant splendor. The excess, piled high, suffocated him and filled him with distaste.
He despised this ostentatious display of power and position through gold and jewels.
But in the eyes of the other Primarchs, Mortarion himself was the most worrying figure present.
He was too—too unusual, too diseased, too strange.
Mortarion, their brother, was far too thin. Worryingly thin, with a sickly gauntness. Where his garb left skin exposed, the flesh showed almost no fat, only lean sinew, scarred by the marks of acid corrosion.
And he was tall. Among those present, only Magnus stood higher, but Magnus outweighed him threefold. Mortarion looked like a tall, crooked, withered tree.
What chilled them most was the breathing mask he wore. Why did he need it?
From beneath that pale, bleached mask came the wheezing rasp of a man in the last stages of consumption, ragged and gasping.
Without his armor, stripped of the protection of plate and poisonous mists, Mortarion's presence exuded only a terrible, unsettling dread.
The Angel was deeply worried that Mortarion might be suffering from some illness—or perhaps that his brother was under a curse. But from their earlier encounters, he had found no other abnormalities.
Dorn judged that this brother was simply too unusual. Mortarion would need to adapt to the rhythm of the Imperium, rather than forcing the entire environment to adapt to him.
Roboute Guilliman, meanwhile, pondered how best to communicate. Mortarion clearly needed to speak. They needed more information from him, if only to better help him—or at least to ease his suffering.
Magnus, however, was reading.
He was reading Mortarion. The Crimson King's attention once again shifted from the Angel to the pale figure.
Magnus was shocked by Mortarion's appearance, yet at the same time, such a singular brother stirred his curiosity.
When one's experience and knowledge had accumulated to a certain threshold, it became possible to pierce through one's own preconceptions and glimpse the essence of things.
Mortarion lived in an atmosphere dense with toxins, with scarce food—otherwise he would have grown taller still. His culture had not yet built anything resembling true civilization.
Scars upon him were the marks left by the warp—several of them. How interesting.
Had Mortarion been battling some psychic entity? Did his world teem with psykers?
Had he relied solely on physical means to strike them down? Or… did he himself possess some psychic ability?
Magnus inclined toward the latter. Mortarion's manner resembled that of psykers from benighted regions—those who stubbornly interpreted the Warp through their own fractured and provincial cultures.
Mortarion carried a strong aura of death. Such things were common enough—blind faith distorted by psychic influence.
Yet Magnus refrained from probing directly with his own power. If Mortarion was a psyker, such an intrusion would have been, to some degree, an insult.
He kept his curiosity contained, but began to feel a twinge of frustration at the way Guilliman and the Angel steered the conversation.
The words of the two were too perfect, like a symphony with its own rhythm. Magnus wondered how Guilliman could coordinate so seamlessly with Sanguinius—it left him no natural moment to interject.
Dorn, at least, would occasionally insert a terse observation during the pauses.
Magnus tried to insert himself into the dialogue. Of course, he was welcome. Yet every time he attempted to guide the subject toward the questions that burned within him, the Angel would divert it away.
Guilliman and Sanguinius never directly pressed Mortarion. Instead, they conversed with one another, tossing out small questions, debating them briefly, and then gently drawing in the others.
It was a classic form of guided dialogue, though clearly none of the other three noticed it.
"The people of Macragge were at first astonished by my presence," Guilliman said. "But as I appeared more often upon the podium, they quickly grew accustomed to me—and began to consider my proposals, rather than my person."
The Angel smiled faintly, gesturing for a servant. A glass was placed in his hand, the crimson wine glistening.
"My people revere me. They worship me. Perhaps they have never thought deeply on such complex matters—but I can guide them to think, to set foot upon the proper path."
He swirled the wine, watching the candlelight refract through it.
But his attention remained elsewhere. For reasons he could not yet name, the Angel realized that Magnus had not noticed it—the Crimson King's curiosity was still wholly bound to Mortarion.
Had it not been for the Angel's own keen intuition, he too might have overlooked that place.
What was it?
Though its projection in the Warp was blasphemous, in reality it was nothing more than an ordinary Astartes. Even if its frame was large, it was undeniably just a Space Marine.
It had taken no threatening action thus far.
It seemed only the Angel had noticed it. His instincts told him it posed no danger to them.
And so he merely observed in silence.
He and Guilliman continued, together, to gently coax Mortarion.
"All they need is a little encouragement and an example to follow, and they can achieve their very best."
Mortarion gave a low sound of agreement.
"Courage is always there. You only need to light the first fuse, and the flames of rebellion will blaze. They will do far better than you could imagine."
"Rebellion? Was there tyranny where you came from?" Guilliman asked.
"Tyranny? More than that!"
Mortarion's voice suddenly rose.
"Warp-spawned psyker overlords oppressed humanity. To them, mankind was nothing but a symbol of wealth, a measure of their power. Rebellion—overthrow those wretches who deserve death a thousand times over!"
"You led the people—"
"Your enemies were psykers?"
Magnus cut in directly, halting Guilliman's line of questioning. Guilliman glanced at him with slight puzzlement, but Magnus, who only moments ago had been lecturing him on the Warp, ignored him completely.
Compared to a brother with no psychic spark like Guilliman, this one—this potential psyker—was far more fascinating to the Crimson King.
Even Mortarion himself was unsettled by Magnus's sudden interruption. The words of condemnation on his tongue caught and died, and he stiffly replied:
"Yes. A rabble of warlocks who toyed with psychic sorcery."
Magnus frowned. Sorcery? Few psykers named themselves thus.
"And how did you face them? The power of the Warp is intricate and dangerous—it cannot be taken lightly."
Sanguinius, ever perceptive, noticed Mortarion's gaze flick aside for an instant—toward that place.
"Scythes. Guns. The promise of death."
Mortarion spoke the words slowly. But the more he said, the deeper Magnus's disappointment grew.
"And… some other things."
Mortarion's tone was vague. Yes—yes, Magnus understood. He was a psyker. His brother did not dare to speak openly because of the Imperial Truth.
"My brother Mortarion, you need not fear. Among us, I am the one who knows the Warp best. You may speak freely."
But as the words left him, Magnus suddenly realized something was wrong in Mortarion's presence.
From beneath the shadow of his hood, those amber eyes glowed like flowing magma, burning with a searing heat, fixed unyieldingly on Magnus.
"You are a psyker?"
Ahriman was the first of the Thousand Sons to notice it.
He tried to warn Magnus, but hesitated—would sending a psychic message in this moment only make things worse?
He could only pray that his father would sense it himself. But Magnus's attention was first drawn to Guilliman and the Angel, and then ensnared again by Mortarion.
So Ahriman remained silent, following close behind, feeling the pounding of blood in his veins, ready to strike at any moment.
As if sensing his turmoil, the Angel Sanguinius turned his gaze upon him. Those eyes said one thing: calm yourself.
There were far too many Ultramarines present; they had taken the last few entire tables.
And so Ahriman, arriving last and without a seat, had been placed at the Death Guard's table.
Dark. Humming. Foul. Profane. Corrupt. Revolting. Absolutely unacceptable.
Ahriman felt despair.
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