~House of Tyrants~

~794. M30~

~Eastern Ultima Segmentum~

~Olympia~

~Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium and Imperial Regent~

It had been one year and some months since the beginning of their voyage. Three-tenths of their planned destinations had been visited thus far, and they were approaching a planet named Olympia.

Supposedly it was named such for a mountain that was present on ancient Terra, although it was gone by the time he first stepped foot upon the homeworld of mankind. Olympia is a rugged, mountainous world composed mostly of rising elevations and seas. It was a particularly young world in geological years, meaning many of its pockets of soil were filled with immense amounts of relative stone, which made it suitable for grasses but little else. Only thin strips of fertile soil in between mountains and seas were available for cultivation in most places, save for the few wider lowlands suitable for ranching.

He did not know the specifics beyond that. It was not his territory to control at any point, remaining in the steadfast 'care' of his brother, Perturabo.

Remembering his brother made his lips thin and his brow furrow.

Ever-grim Perturabo, ever miserly and pessimistic. Carrying out the bloodiest and most laborious work without a care. Carrying out war for war's sake it seemed, a task he took to with an exacting and praise-worthy thoroughness. Quick to enact severe punishments for little reason, quick to snap in anger at the critique of another, quick to flee from any social gathering, quick to turn his back on others.

Perturabo knew that they were tools, but was determined to be only a tool of war and nothing else. Determined to be a weapon instead of a hero. Determined to suffer needlessly when he could have simply refused to perform constant sieges. Guilliman knows that the Emperor did not punish their brothers for far more egregious breaches of duty, simply asking for another duty would have been met with acceptance and reassignment.

Perturabo had reduced everything in his life to equation, and at some point made the determination that siding with Horus over the Emperor had the superior result.

Guilliman hoped he could make his (now younger) brother see that there was more to life than flaws and punishments. That his wondrous talents for architecture and invention could be leveraged to virtuous things as well. Not just war and death.

Guilliman also hoped that Perturabo had already landed, because having to do this entire trip again ten years from now would be quite irritating, and coming back without his brothers would be something he would be sour over for years. He could be leading a conquest right now, expanding and growing, building his base of operations! He thought this was time-critical, but if it wasn't he would make sure to write a strongly worded letter, carry many copies, and hand it to every Harlequin-Eldar he found from then on.

At some point along their trip, Asarnil had told him of what the laughing mask likely was. Cegorach, the Eldar trickster god, and the only one that survived the birth of Slaanesh whole and free. Khaine, the war-god, had been shattered and dispersed. Isha, their mother-goddess, had been captured by Nurgle. The rest had been devoured, likely after many unpleasant things had been done to them.

The circumstantial evidence aligned well enough for his tastes. He felt no need to pray to a xeno god, however, so instead he would thank the warp-entity by freeing Isha. Isha, as far as he could tell, was generally pleasant for a xeno-warp-entity and rarely encouraged conflict. That meant that her being free and active was unlikely to worsen the situation in the galaxy for Humanity or Eldar.

He was still going to free her regardless, he owed this entire opportunity to that untrustworthy-sounding silver mask, but it was nice that he wasn't unleashing some problematic entity.

The only question would be how to protect it from the Chaos-god that ate the rest of its pantheon afterwards. That wasn't technically part of the bargain, but it felt like an implied request, and he wasn't one to leave a duty half-finished. The issue was he just wasn't as knowledgeable on matters of the warp to make plans for… divine fortifications, or something like that.

He was hoping he could convince his creator of this duty, and that he would know what to do. If not, either he would have to study up on the matter, or try to collect a large number of Eldar psykers and see what they could do.

…Maybe incarnation? Physical beings were somewhat protected from the warp, were they not? Was that even a good idea in a general sense?

This is why he tried to never touch the warp and all of its affairs beyond a general, practical understanding. It was all Aeldari to him.

Or wait, he could actually speak Aeldari couldn't he? So what was the correct metaphor in this situation? It was all… Orkish? No, that didn't work either. Orkish was easy once you knew that you should completely stop thinking and slur all your words.

"So this is the planet of… which one?" Asarnil questioned from his side.

"Perturabo should be here. I remember him trying to boast that he arrived almost immediately, and therefore was the oldest among us once. We ran the calculations to find that Horus was still older by about a month. Perturabo refused to speak to any of us save Magnus for several days." Guilliman recalled simpler times with a faint quirk to his lips.

"He sounded like quite the character then." Asarnil spoke with humor in his voice.

Guilliman chuckled briefly, but as he stared at the approaching planet, his faint smile slowly dimmed.

Armies of brothers in yellow, brothers in gray, sons in blue, and killing fields as far as the eye could see. All twenty square miles of said killing field. A magnificent fortress built solely as a trap to kill as many people as possible. A trap that fulfilled its purpose with all the strategic and engineering genius of brother Perturabo, greatest in raw knowledge of any of the Primarchs.

The Iron Cage.

That which almost shattered his brother Dorn, and the Imperial Fists Space Marines Legion with him.

"...uilliman. Guilliman!" The call of Asarnil brought him from his memories. He blinked, and turned his head to regard the Dragonlord.

"Yes?"

Asarnil stared at him for a moment, before leaning back with arms crossed. "I was asking you what you know about Olympia. You haven't told me much of it yet."

Ah, he must have drifted off. Somewhat rude of him to do so. Guilliman nodded and turned to the planet. "I don't know as much as I probably should. It was never within my authority, and it had been destroyed by the time I assumed the role of Imperial Regent."

"I'm noticing a pattern with human worlds. They tend to be destroyed with disturbing frequency."

Guilliman considered that for a moment, before giving a small nod in acquiescence. It did tend to happen more often than it should, a pattern that accentuated the nightmare that the future would become without outside influence. "Olympia is ruled by many competing city-states. I remember about twelve major states, and perhaps a thousand minor ones. Each major city is built on top of a defensible stretch of mountain range, making them more akin to giant fortresses than normal cities."

"I assume the minor city states are subjugated and made to produce foodstuffs for the major states?"

"I would surmise that as well, but I can't be sure. Each of the major cities are ruled by a singular human, usually a man, called a Tyrant."

"A promising title for diplomacy." Asarnil drawled out. He wasn't precisely wrong either. If they arrived in force then it was entirely possible that the various states would band together and make their task of finding his young brother incredibly irritating.

"That's why I made copies of every STC-fragment we came across." Guilliman reached up to scratch at his chin. "I believe Perturabo was raised by the Tyrant of Lochos, which should be the largest city-state on the planet. If all goes well, we can simply trade the great quantity of ancient knowledge to people who barely have the means to use it but desire it greatly all the same. If that is not enough, we shall hand over copies of the Codex Administratum and Lingua. If that doesn't work, I shall appeal to their better nature by asking you to offer them some surplus weapons we have in store."

"And if they refuse still?"

"...Then we kill them, and potentially my brother with them." His eyes were cold as he stared at the rocky world.

The life of his brother versus the lives of countless trillions. The choice was easy to make when weighed on that scale, and it fell against the side of mercy. Guilliman did not have enough strength to afford it at the moment. He desperately wished that he did, it would make his heart far lighter.

"My brother should feel like me, for as much as I understand of psyker-business." Guilliman finished his delaying and slid the skull-faced helmet over his head. "More like me than other humans for certain, and perhaps as grown as a human adolescent at the moment."

"I'll be sure my Seers know what to sense for."

—

From the heavens above Lochos seven massive ships descended. They looked to be fish at one glance, and then sailboats on the next, and then nothing like could be quickly described the next.

Massive and white-carapaced, with fins that extended like sails from the sides and bore the colors of the night sky stretched across thin bone-like protrusions. Each was a slightly different structure and design, bearing a multitude of patterns and runes that glowed with a faint blue light.

Panic filled the guardians of Lochos immediately, and people began to flee in droves to what shelters and escapes they could. All had heard legends of ships dropping holy wrath from above, rendering entire cities mere dust and memory, none wished to suffer such a fate.

For those closest to the palace of the Tyrant, all they could do was watch in horror and hope that the ships would not bring with them destruction.

Most of the star-vessels stayed high within the air, only the largest descending further.

Five kilometers of chitinous danger loomed over the city, casting the entire palace and much of the surrounding area into deep shadows. It grew closer and closer, until it was within range of ballistae and other weapons of siegecraft.

Finally ceasing in its descent, a series of hatches on its belly began to pull apart like the legs of a great armored arthropod.

From this chasm in the belly of the boneship, a figure fell.

It looked like a man from a distance, but as it approached they began to realize with dread that it couldn't be.

No man was that large, that grand in scale. No man was…

Boom. It was too late.

The man had crashed into the courtyard in front of the Tyrant's Abode, sending forth a great rumbling boom that echoed throughout the upper city district. A great cloud of dust and debris burst forth from the landing site, and all guardians of the palace readied their weapons with shaking hands and sweat on their brows.

The dust began to settle. The figure in the center rose to full dread prominence. A giant.

Its visage was a holy corpse. It carried arms of burning gold. Its voice was rolling thunder.

"I am Malum Caedo. Son of the Emperor of Mankind. I have come to retrieve my sibling. I demand audience with the Tyrant of Lochos."

—

Ceremonies were important, they helped humans establish narratives. Guilliman had just dropped from a height that would kill a normal man, from an alien starship, bearing a burning sword and making demands of tyrants with absolute certainty. He had done so alone, despite having several large ships in orbit that no doubt carried many people or weapons upon them.

The narrative he had established was one of pure power. The humans present obeyed that narrative, as he had predicted.

The panicked guards had tried their best to shepard him into the throne room, using their most intimidating voices and posturing. Most socialization between humans was posturing in the end. The specifics was where it got more complex. Unfortunately for them, none of their weapons could hope to damage his armor, much less the man wearing it. Their intimidation tactics did very little to him.

"Y-you must relinquish your weapons before y-you receive an audience with the Tyrant of Lochos!" A warrior that looked as if he wished to be anywhere except his current location forced out before the mighty stone doors that led into the next chamber.

He turned his helmet to stare at the soldier for a moment. Just enough to make him sweat, before speaking. "I answer to a higher authority than your Tyrant." Namely, himself.

Ignoring the guard, he sheathed his sword, then reached down to the bottom of the immensely heavy stone gate. This design had a small gap at the bottom, and space above where he could spot some sort of pulley system.

Meaning that it was for defense, but they didn't have enough metal for steel. Or the Tyrant was simply feeling traditional, that was possible too he supposed.

His fingertips clung to the bottom of the massive stone gate. Slowly, making sure to make it seem effortless, he raised the gate above his head. As it rose, he could see the look of horror slowly growing on the face of a man on a petty stone throne. That was most likely the Tyrant he was looking for.

He stepped through the gateway, leaving the gate open long enough for anyone who wanted to step through to do so, and slowly lowered it behind him once more. There was no need to break anything after all, that would be quite rude.

The stone gates set down again, he turned and stepped forwards. Each gentle stride seemed to force the tyrant to withdraw more and more, until eventually Guilliman's presence in the center of the room seemed to drown out all other authority.

"Tyrant of Lochos. I have come to retrieve my sibling. Prophecy has led me to this place. You have them, release them to me."

"Y-Your sibling…?" The Tyrant fearfully questioned.

"Yes. Roughly two years prior, my siblings were scattered from their home by the hands of a foul spell. One of my brothers landed here, on Olympia. A child of prodigious mind and rapid growth."

Slight recognition entered the eyes of the tyrant, but also confusion. "Y-your brother… no… I don't have your brother in my halls."

"Do not lie." Guilliman did not need to shout. The statement was threatening enough coming from him. The tyrant raised his hands and exclaimed quickly. Panicked gestures and wide eyes as he did so.

"I-it's true a supernaturally gifted child came to my care b-but-"

"But what."

"It wasn't your br-"

"...Brother?" A new voice disrupted his focus on the cowering tyrant. Guilliman turned his gaze to the side of the chamber, one of the many doorways that led deeper into the fortress-like palace.

In the doorway were four figures. Two boys that bore no semblance to Perturabo. A normal human girl, clutching at the hem of her brother's shirt.

And a girl standing in front of all three, despite their attempts to push her behind them. A girl of roughly starting-adolescent age. She had dark brown hair, shortly cropped and brushed back on her head. She had light blue eyes that glowed with a willfulness that bordered on arrogance.

It was the seemingly perpetual frown and sullen glare that was most familiar to him. The person before him looked like Perturabo's daughter. But Perturabo should still be a child himself right now, of roughly the same age…

He stepped over, reaching the small girl almost instantly with his massive gait. Fear entered her eyes, but her glare remained, and her hands balled into fists.

He knelt, still too tall to be on eye-level, but far closer than he had been.

He reached up with his right hand, and slowly removed his fearsome helmet. Revealing eyes that were almost the same shade of blue. He needed to get a good look at her, and the eyeholes of his helmet were not useful to that aim.

Setting his helmet down, he slowly reached forward to take hold of her chin, gently nudging her face around to look at her features from multiple angles.

"How old are you, girl?"

"Two." The child answered immediately, speaking with full confidence and an undercurrent of impertinence.

He raised his brows and looked her up and down.

"You are very big for a child of two." He commented, unsure of what to make of his current situation.

"Your prophets are bad." She spoke suddenly, confusing him for a moment. He blinked at her, and she continued. "If they thought I was a boy. Your prophets are bad."

He was the prophet in this situation. The third thing she said to him was saying that he was unskilled. The first two were one-word responses.

Guilliman knew beyond a shadow of doubt that this was Perturabo at that moment.

"Yes they are. I shall have to get new ones." He eventually replied, rising up from his crouch to stare at her.

"The punishment for bad prophets is stoning." She dutifully repeated. Her blank glare very much added to the effect of her words.

"I see. Are you ready to go, sister?" The word felt alien at the end of his tongue, especially when looking down at a child that should be definitively male at the moment…

…was Perturabo always a female? No… That wasn't right, was it…?

"...okay." She sounded slightly unsure, utterly unlike Perturabo at that moment. The wrongness crept up through his body, even as he slowly withdrew his sword to point at an empty spot in the room. It burst into flames for a few seconds, alerting the Eldar on the ship above to activate the short-range webway gate.

A glowing green hole in reality opened before them, showing rows and rows of white-clad soldiers. In the far distance of the hangar, he checked for the signal of the seers.

A distant nod. He sheathed his sword, and lowered a hand to the child, his…

…sister…

The alien sensation followed him as the little girl grabbed hold of his pinky and followed him into the webway gate.