Three Custodians in golden armor, each carrying a tray, strode up the platform.
On each tray rested two items.
The smaller was a golden Aquila medal, inlaid with fiery red patterns, each with a different central design.
The Emperor first picked up the one in the middle: its emblem was a black sword thrust into an Ork's head.
He pinned it onto Nareth's black armor and spoke:
"Nareth, this medal symbolizes your beheading of the Ork warlord, a judgment upon the xeno."
He then walked to Leman Russ, taking the medal showing a wolf pouncing upon an ork, and fixed it to his gray armor.
"Russ, this symbolizes your wolves, striking down the greenskins with ferocity, swiftly ending their filthy lives."
At last, the Emperor moved to Hannibal and set upon his amber armor the medal bearing the design of a bear-hunter's blade cleaving an ork.
"Hannibal, this marks your hunter's blade cutting apart the orks' vile bodies."
Nareth's black eyes glinted: 'More like a dinner knife slicing meat.'
As he thought, the Emperor lifted another item from the tray.
It resembled the Iron Halos Nareth had once bestowed upon the best warriors of the Wheel of Fire campaign.
This was a golden ring attached to a vertical rod, made to hang from power armor.
But at its crown was a ruby, and golden laurels decorated its circumference in deliberate patterns. Nareth quickly sensed the ruby's immense power.
The Emperor held it high.
"These are a higher form than the Iron Halo. I name them Golden Halos."
"Like the Iron Halos, they contain built-in conversion field generators: when struck, a deflection field activates, producing an energy shield capable of turning aside lascannons and missiles."
"But these rubies hold even greater power; they can even withstand a blast of the Sinistramanus Tenebrae."
Nareth knew Sinistramanus Tenebrae were the terrible weapons mounted on Psi-Titans, powered by Alpha-grade psykers.
Such Titans, belonging to the Ordo Sinister, were one of the Emperor's greatest weapons, machines whose designs came from His own hand.
A single Psi-Titan could outmatch even the Aeldar's god-machines, far surpassing the Titans parading here today.
He silently judged: 'Its defense is formidable.'
Nareth bent slightly, letting the Emperor place the Golden Halo behind his armor.
For now, it was only ceremonial; Techmarines would later bind it properly.
His case was special: he still awaited armor forged by Ferrus Manus himself.
The Emperor gave Golden Halos also to Russ and Hannibal. The Custodians bowed and withdrew.
At the platform's center lay two items.
One was a gray thunder hammer, blackened in hue, etched with runes of lightning.
The Emperor took it, walking to Hannibal.
"This Thunder Hammer was made by my personal artificers."
"It differs from the common hammer; it does not release its force in one instant to strike down a foe."
"Instead, it projects a field that stuns with a peal of thunder. Thus, I name it Thunderclap."
Hannibal's eyes shone. He accepted it in both hands:
"Father, thank you. The Thunder Hammer suits me well."
The Emperor turned to Russ.
"In the Wheel of Fire campaign, your wolves made great sacrifices. You move swiftly, never halting."
"But your homeworld, Fenris, may be left exposed."
"Thus, I grant you a fortress, the greatest of all beyond the Imperial Palace itself."
At this, Nareth's heart sank. He already guessed the Emperor was granting Russ the Fang.
'So, by the Wheel of Fire's rewards… He will give me the Dionysian Spear?'
Nareth understood the Emperor's words were not untrue: in the future, the Thousand Sons would strike at the Fang, drawing the Wolves from their lairs.
The fortress would let them resist and ultimately repel the sorcerers, its strategic value decisive.
Russ bowed low: "All-Father, the Wolves will honor Your will and purge all enemies of the Imperium!"
Nareth watched as the Emperor moved to the platform's core, pressing a control rod.
With the grinding of gears, a platform rose bearing a long spear.
It was beautifully wrought, sized for a Primarch.
But at once, Russ, Manus, and Hannibal frowned. Their bloodline senses recoiled: they felt the curse bound within it.
Even at a glance, the spear inspired unease.
Nareth narrowed his eyes. The Emperor was about to bestow upon him the Dionysian Spear.
'So in the end, it comes to me, and without any choice.'
'He must have used his abilities to peer into the futures.'
'In those futures, I play some vital role. That is why he entrusts me with the spear.'
His gaze flickered. He knew he could not refuse. But neither would he let himself be a pawn.
'The Spear cannot dictate my will. My choices are my own.'
'If His designs do not align with my ideals or interests, I will not follow them.'
'If He forces my hand, it only means His cunning is unmatched, His plans flawless.'
Nareth knew the Spear was not like the warp-tainted relics of Chaos. It did not corrode the mind.
Russ himself had only ever carried it before the Emperor, never embracing it.
It did not command him, his actions remained his own.
'If the Second and Eleventh Legions were purged in 945, and it was Russ and the Wolves who did so…'
'That only means Russ obeyed the Emperor. He chose to be the executioner; it was not the Spear's influence.'
'Even at Prospero's burning, he did not wield it. Yet he still made his choice: to strike, and to break Magnus' spine.'
Russ had loathed the Spear, resisting it for long.
Only at the end did he accept its curse, not as servitude, but as a weapon, to gain strength enough to kill Horus.
The Spear never bent his will. His every decision was his own.
As Nareth pondered, the Emperor spoke:
"Nareth, this spear I forged in the age of strife, within the first fortress I built underground."
Nareth approached, thinking:
'And I know you poured part of your essence into it.'
'That makes the Spear a true artifact, but also a cursed weapon.'
Most so-called relics, like the Claw of Horus, were mighty, but not true artifacts. This spear was different.
The Emperor continued:
"I named it the Dionysian Spear. Now I give it to you. May you wield it to forge great deeds."
Nareth came before the spear, his thoughts racing.
'Perhaps it is fated only for Russ, and it will not react to me.'
'I remember when Russ first grasped it, its curse-string cut through his soul.'
'He laughed then, though it was uglier than weeping.'
'The Emperor saw his dread and resistance, but said nothing. That silence pained Russ more than the curse itself.'
'The Fenrisians call those strings the threads of fate. Russ knew then: his destiny would be grim.'
.....
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