The Imperial Palace on Terra, the Hall of Hegemony.
Before the colossal floor-to-ceiling windows, the golden figure remained standing.
Outside the glass, the endless hive spires of the Eternal City gleamed with a cold, unforgiving luster under the radiant light of the Astronomican.
Countless mechanical pipelines snaked their way between the towering structures, while transport vessels flowed through them in a never-ending stream, looking for all the world like blood cells pumping through arteries of steel.
But all of this existed solely beneath the watchful gaze of those golden eyes.
The Emperor held his posture, looking as though he had stood there for countless centuries.
That was until a low, gravelly voice echoed from behind him.
"Are you truly going to train that Outworlder?"
The voice was incredibly old, carrying the hoarse grit of accumulated ages, yet it harbored a penetrating power that seemed to strike directly at the soul.
Unnoticed, a figure had appeared a mere three meters behind the Emperor.
It was an old man draped in a dark grey, hooded robe.
The garment was exceedingly plain, bearing only the most understated embroidery of the Imperial Aquila at the collar and cuffs, the golden threads flickering faintly in the ambient light.
The hem of the robe dragged across the floor, forming a stark contrast against the flawlessly polished, mirror-like stone of the Hegemon Hall.
The old man's frame was frail and hunched, making him resemble a weathered, ancient tree that had endured eons of biting frost.
His skin was deeply furrowed with the trenches of time. His hands were clasped before him, the veins bulging against the back of his hands, his knuckles sharp and pronounced.
But his eyes...
They were deep, silver-grey pools, as profound as a freezing abyss, having born witness to ten thousand years of storms and secrets.
They were piercingly sharp, as though they could dissect the very essence of any soul and peer straight through the dense fogs of destiny.
A tremendously dense, suffocating psychic aura wreathed his frail form.
The sheer magnitude of this aura was so immense that even a mere mortal completely utterly devoid of psychic sensitivity would feel the freezing, abyssal pressure rolling off him.
It was a power capable of scorching entire star systems. It was the second great pillar that had tirelessly supported the Imperium of Man for countless years.
Malcador.
The Sigillite.
The Perpetual.
The Emperor's closest confidant.
The de facto Vice-Emperor of mankind.
The undisputed second-in-command.
The sole, absolute proxy of the Emperor's will.
His titles alone could fill an entire scroll of parchment.
Regent of Terra. First Lord of the Imperium. Grand Master of the Council of High Lords of Terra. Supreme Master of both the Adeptus Astra Telepathica and the Adeptus Astronomica. The core architect of the Imperial Truth. The supreme coordinator of the Imperium's clandestine intelligence networks...
He was the only man in existence permitted to stand and speak before the Master of Mankind without bowing.
He was the only man authorized to wield the full breadth of the Emperor's authority in His absence.
He could issue edicts, sign treaties, and appoint or execute any official in the Imperium, all in the Emperor's name.
His absolute authority eclipsed even that of the Primarchs.
When Darius spoke of a mortal capable of dictating the very destiny of the Imperium, this was the man he meant.
At this moment, the most powerful mortal in the Imperium was staring at the Emperor's back with those silver-grey eyes.
The Emperor slowly turned to face the dearest friend who had stood by his side for ages uncounted.
Upon that flawless face, there was none of the terrifying majesty and divinity he presented to the rest of the galaxy.
Instead, there was only a sense of ease—the kind of quiet relaxation reserved solely for his one true confidant.
The corners of the Emperor's mouth curled up slightly, revealing a faint, subtle smile.
It was a smile tinged with a hint of gentle teasing, but heavily burdened by an exhaustion that seemed to seep into his very bones.
"Why not? Malcador, you and I can both peer into the mists of the future, can we not?" The Emperor's voice was perfectly serene, yet anchored by an unwavering resolve that Malcador knew all too well.
The Emperor stepped toward the center of the hall, his golden cape trailing a stream of light across the polished stone. He paused beneath the towering statue of himself, looking up at a face that perfectly mirrored his own.
"Before these Outworlders appeared, the future we foresaw was blurry and rife with variables, but at least there was a faint, guiding thread... The Imperium of Man would suffer countless calamities, but it would ultimately endure. Some of the Primarchs would raise the banner of rebellion. Some would fall to the ruinous powers of Chaos. But in the end, we would weather the storm."
He turned back to face Malcador, his golden eyes shimmering with an incredibly complex light.
There was exhaustion, resignation, anger, and a fleeting trace of something else...
An almost imperceptible agony.
"But you and I are powerless to forcefully correct these trajectories. Because every rash intervention only guarantees a far worse ending. You understand this reality far better than I do. Therefore, our only option has been to seek out hidden trump cards beneath the blinding veil of the four Chaos Gods. Just as you have done to prepare for the looming shadow of the Warp and the threat of civil war. You have already secretly laid the groundwork for a legion of psychic warriors dedicated solely to combating the Immaterium. You conceptualized an entire inquisitorial system capable of purging chaotic corruption from a fractured galaxy. Just like the countless fail-safes you have buried across the entire Imperium."
Malcador's mouth twitched slightly. He stepped forward slowly, coming to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the Emperor.
The two most unfathomably powerful psykers in the history of mankind stood together in the hollow silence of the grand hall.
The Emperor paused for a moment, his golden eyes gazing into the void, as though watching countless timelines rushing forward, colliding, and annihilating one another all at once.
"But since the arrival of these Outworlders, the futures I have scoured for countless years have been thrown into absolute disarray. In some timelines, Perturabo is the first to raise the flag of rebellion. In others, the civil war detonates prematurely, and the four Chaos Gods tear the veil between reality and the Warp wide open. In some, the Imperium of Man is utterly eradicated in the thirtieth millennium. In others, Guilliman accepts the mantle of Warmaster, only to ultimately embrace betrayal. And in some timelines, Sanguinius survives to the bitter end, but becomes someone I do not even recognize. Tell me... can you see these threads as well?"
Malcador remained silent for two seconds before offering a slow, grave nod. "I can feel it. The variables brought forth by these Outworlders are actively rewriting the trajectory we have watched for eons. I attempted to trace their origins, to find exactly where they came from." A rare note of genuine perplexity crept into his raspy voice. "But with every attempt, I encountered an overwhelmingly violent interference. This interference does not originate from the Four Gods... but from some higher, incomprehensible existence. I cannot see through it. I cannot locate them."
"Not just you; I cannot see it either. And even if I could, it would be of no use," the Emperor agreed, giving a slight nod. He walked back to the floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing out at the endless, sprawling hive spires. "Malcador, we both know full well why we dare not rashly alter that faint trajectory. Any reckless change will only trigger a far greater catastrophe. I have attempted to peer into a future where I did not grant the title of Warmaster to Horus... I attempted to see it given to Ferrus." The Emperor's voice flowed on, calmly stating the facts of the universe before descending into a bottomless well of helpless resignation. "And the result? In those shattered visions I managed to glimpse..."
"The civil war resolved much faster, and with far greater ferocity. Ferrus could not command the respect of his brothers. Perturabo refused to bow to him, Curze despised him, Alpharius undermined him, and even Dorn harbored reservations about his authority. The Legions fractured completely, allowing the four Chaos Gods to intervene in the conflict far earlier and much more directly. The final vision I witnessed was Nurgle's Garden blooming across the Imperial Palace, Slaanesh dancing upon the Golden Throne, and Khorne and Tzeentch carving up the galaxy between them. The risk of humanity's utter extinction climbed to a level I simply could not bear."
Malcador remained silent, offering no rebuttal.
He knew the Emperor spoke the absolute truth.
Because he had personally peered into those same chaotic timelines countless times.
Countless times.
And every single attempt verified the exact same horrifying reality: even the slightest, most well-intentioned alteration to the timeline would only drag them closer to utter annihilation.
"Therefore, I had no choice but to bestow the title of Warmaster upon my most trusted son, Horus. Even if his prestige was not absolute enough to suppress all of his brother Primarchs. Even if I could already smell the approaching stench of civil war..."
The Emperor's voice grew incredibly heavy.
"...I could only give the mantle of Warmaster to him. I could only surrender supreme command of the Great Crusade fleets to him. I could only..."
He closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.
"...do this in a desperate bid to minimize the catastrophic damage the Imperium is fated to endure. I want to believe Horus will not turn traitor, though I cannot be absolutely certain... However, out of everything I could foresee, this choice offered the highest probability for humanity's survival. Even though I do not know if it will be enough to stop this fated rebellion from coming..."