The summons went elsewhere. A Council to reason about psykers convened on Nikaea; the Princess was not invited.
She sent a sealed question: Am I not to be heard?
The Emperor's return message was iron pared to a sentence. "You are needed on Terra. Be Regent. You will be told."
She obeyed. Obedience felt like swallowing a key. When word came back—edicts curtailing the Librarius—she called the only brother who would answer plain.
"Is it true?" she voxed Magnus. "Did He threaten you with erasure from the record?"
Magnus's voice was level, hurt wrapped in dignity. "It is true. He invoked the law of ghosts. And I, who have loved knowledge as other men love life, am told to put down the book."
"I am afraid of what I am," she admitted. "And more afraid of what I could become."
"Be afraid of silence," he said gently. "Not of learning. And be afraid of men who deny you the why and demand only the obey." A pause; then, lower: "Father keeps doors from you that he leaves ajar for others. There are things in the warp, and under Terra, that you have not been shown."
"What doors?"
"Not here," he said. "Face to face, or not at all."
The channel clicked quiet. She set down the receiver and stared at her hands until they looked like someone else's. Remembrancers would later call this the last quiet night of her youth. Magnus and she would not meet again.