In the first months after coming to Terra, Faro spent his time, above all, reading.

There were many ways of conveying information. Yet the written word, one of the first among them, retained some primacy because it combined ease of production with ease of consumption. Of course, few now used the styluses of yore, which the Emperor had shown images of to Faro; but they still wrote, and so Faro read. Histories, discourses, scientific tracts, architectural guides - he had been thrown into a new world, and so he tried to understand fully that world before playing his part in improving it.

It quickly became evident that, unlike with Hive Vilepor, complete understanding was impossible. Terra's history was impossibly complicated, a tapestry woven of threads left over of ancient lords' garments. The recorded history of Terra spanned tens of thousands of years, and too many of the wonders it described could not be reproduced, and some may well have been myths. And human civilization had covered millions of worlds in its most recent bloom, each capable of filling countless libraries of its own.

Before the collapse. Before Old Night.

And now, as the Warp Storms that impeded interstellar travel receded, the Emperor had unified Terra to lead humanity into a new golden age, one that would last forever. And as Faro came to understand that, to see the faint outlines of the Emperor's grand plan, he saw, too, what was needed of him. The forging of the Imperium would require diplomats, warriors, and stewards alike, and Faro was meant to be all three.

With his curiosity ameliorated by duty, then, Faro continued his lessons, but also paid more attention to his surroundings, above all the people. The Emperor was kept busy by rule, and while he made sure to spend time with Faro, the young primarch was often left to his own devices.

The day his partial isolation ended, Faro was stalking around in the shadows, following a conversation of two auxilia generals that did not notice him. The Custodes could do so with ease, of course; Faro was good at hiding, but even though he would grow stronger than the Custodes in time, he doubted he would ever be able to evade their gaze. But the Custodes, upon instruction from the Emperor, did not interrupt Faro's wanderings, though neither did they indulge his curiosity.

"We need a campaign against Tang," one of the generals, a blond mustachioed man wearing a uniform with abundant decoration, said. "The Panpacific Empire is broken, Dume a broken man. He will be a tough nut to crack, but Tang alone remains a threat."

"If Dume were dead I would agree with you," the other general, an elderly dark-skinned woman with a plainer uniform, replied. "But he is alive, and who among us can understand the workings of Dume's mind? While the enemy is reeling, that is when one strikes. As to Tang, he is no threat, for he has no means to attack us."

"He might gain one," the first general protested. "But the Emperor will decide, regardless."

"He already has," a voice came, and then Malcador the Sigillite was before them.

He looked an elderly man, flowing white hair spilling from a hooded coat, leaning on his ornate staff of office. But Faro knew him, if very distantly, as his father's closest advisor, a figure that demanded instant respect. Faro had overheard tales that he commanded assassin squads for the Emperor, leading them disguised by his psychic abilities. When he had asked the Emperor about it, later, his father had laughed and said only that Malcador was indeed more than he seemed.

"Lord Sigillite," the younger general immediately said, giving a deep bow. The older general did the same, albeit more carefully.

"General Awimaprasin," Malcador said, "General Umo. And Primarch Faro of Cthonia - yes, I do see you."

Slightly reddening, Faro came up to the assembly, giving a bow of his own to Malcador. The flustered generals immediately bowed to him as well, with shocked respect. Faro was not sure what he thought of that. He was a primarch, and grew quickly, but still - he was undoubtedly a boy rather than a man, still, and had not yet begun his true work. To have them bow to him due to his heritage was one thing, but he could feel that some of the respect he earned was due to something more than that.

"It is good that you are gathered like this," Malcador said. "We will have a war council tomorrow, at Samal, to discuss the details; but we are not striking at the Yndonesic Bloc, not yet. Neither are we finishing Dume's empire."

The older general frowned. "Yet we are beginning a campaign."

"We are," Malcador confirmed. "Several campaigns, but above all - Luna."

"Thunder Warriors or us?" the older general immediately asked. "Or shall this be the Astartes' debut?"

"The council is tomorrow," Malcador repeated. "Dismissed."

The generals bowed to him, or perhaps to Faro, again, and left. Malcador beckoned Faro to stay.

"If you would walk with an old man..." he said.

"You're not truly old, though," Faro said with a frown.

"I am. Oh, I am not so frail as I appear, and I may live for centuries yet; but I have seen so, so very much." Malcador switched his grip on the staff. "As has the Emperor. You should remember that."

"I will," Faro said. Was Malcador seeking to emphasize his experience, and how much Faro had to learn?

"So I hope," Malcador said. "Anyhow, how are you finding Terra?"

Faro took a moment to decide on his answer. "Vast," he eventually said. "There is so much history and detail to everything, both what is in the past and in the future."

"Cthonia is an old world," Malcador began, thoughtfully. "It was colonized by some of the first sublight ships, when humanity did not yet travel the Warp. Its history is not much shorter than Terra's. Yet Cthonia does not remember that history, and Terra does." The Sigillite shook his head. "I say Terra does, but I mean to say we do. The Yndonesic Bloc, and the other rebel holdouts, know as much about the past as the Cthonian gangs."

"I should re-compile Cthonia's history," Faro said.

"Perhaps you should," Malcador said with a small smile. "Though not even you could do such a thing alone... For now, we need to discuss the council, and the etiquette thereof."

They walked, now, through undecorated halls, only recently carved out of the rock. Malcador was still acting in what Faro recognized as a grandfatherly manner, though in truth he did not know whether the Sigillite was any older than his father. He had not had reason to consider his father's age, in truth. "There is so much to seek," Faro said. "I hardly know where to start."

And Malcador stopped at a bend in the tunnel, and looked back at Faro, his lined face seeming to age a hundred years in an instant.

"Start with war," he said, "and you will not be disappointed."