Author's Note: For those interested, there are three advance chapters on P-atreon (remove the spaces and dash): p-atreon/ SkySage24.

The private gallery of Malcador the Sigillite was something a million souls on Terra would have committed murder to earn an invitation to, and there were ten million more who would have liked to see it ransacked and burned to the ground.

Here, in these halls of paved marble and crystal chandeliers were the prizes of every war the Imperium had ever fought. Ancient paintings decorated the walls, preserved in shimmering stasis fields. Magnificent statues were in every corner, depicting the gods and heroes of a thousand cultures, dead and alive.

The crown jewels of the monarchs of Albia, the religious manuscripts of the Church of the Lightning Stone, and the thrones of the Nord-Afrikan warlords. All these and more filled the Sigillite's private collection.

The naive might have thought it a museum, an extension of what the Order of the Sigillites had done, collecting and preserving history. Those more canny would have seen it for what it really was: a trophy room.

The plunder and loot of a thousand campaigns, the prizes of a warlord, who had ripped these precious treasures from the hands of his enemies and relished every moment of it.

Not that most people ever got to see his collection, Malcador mused to himself as he strode through the galleries. It was a petty thing, but he was a jealous man, he would admit that much, at least to himself. And those he allowed entry to his private galleries were few and far between.

The Emperor had an open invite, of course, but his old friend rarely came to visit, occupied with other matters. The Lord of Terra had little appreciation for history, ironic for someone who had seen so much of it. Or perhaps it was because of that.

That aside, there were a few trusted servants he had retained to clean and maintain the place, and the Custodes had the codes for emergencies, but they were hardly likely to visit him.

It was almost a shame, and yet…Malcador's lips twitched into a smile as he passed a set of gleaming blue marbles on a white pedestal.

To know that he and only he had access to these treasures, that they were his, was pleasing in its own way.

And he did have a guest today. A rare thing, but this was one guest that Malcador would not mind entertaining.

Malcador entered the central hall of the gallery, where there sat a fountain he had uprooted from the palace of the King of Hy-Brasil, the sound of flowing water most pleasant to his ears. The roof was a fresco that had been painted many thousands of years before Malcador's own birth by the artist Michaelangelo, which had miraculously survived the ages until he had it imported here.

All in all, the perfect place to greet an important guest.

And at the centre of the gallery, at a crystal table, sitting on a magnificent throne encrusted with jewels and covered in red velvet was his guest, eyes darting from one corner of the room to another, intelligent eyes filled with fear.

"Hello, Fo," Malcador said with a smile, and immediately the other man spun to look at him, his features startled for a moment before settling into bitter acceptance.

"My King," Basilio Fo said curtly, though his tone lacked the respect his words would imply as he slouched into his chair.

Malcador chuckled as he settled into the twin to Fo's seat. "Come now, old friend. I am no longer your king. Or indeed, anyone's."

"I heard," Fo said, eyeing him distastefully. "Regent of the Imperium now, is it? Right-hand of the Emperor of Mankind?"

Malcador smiled at him as he poured himself a cup of tea from the pot, breathing in deeply the steam the liquid released. "Yes. Though it will be Regent of Terra, soon."

Fo's lip curled, ignoring the cup of tea that Malcador set in front of him. "I suppose so. Was it worth it, then? To stand at the side of this so-called Emperor and his legion of monsters, to achieve victory?

Victory.

It was a foreign thought, almost impossible for Malcador to believe as he mulled over Fo's question.

How long had he and the Emperor toiled for this? To unify Terra under one banner and restore peace and order to humanity's homeworld?

Truth be told, Malcador had always had doubts. The Emperor had always been an optimist. He had changed greatly from the man that Malcador had known during those long-gone days of the Gene Wars and the Cybernetic Revolt. But for all that the Emperor was a far colder and more ruthless man than Doctor George Adams had ever been, he still believed that things could improve, could be made better.

It had been a long time since the Sigillite had shared that faith. He had seen the very worst of humanity even in the days before The Strife, as mankind tore itself and the galaxy apart for greed and power. Imperial scribes named that era the Golden Age and they did so by his own command and approval. But in his private moments, Malcador could not help but think that it had been an age of darkness every bit as harsh and cruel as the galaxy of today, merely in different ways.

Indeed, he had relished in that darkness. He had committed innumerable acts of butchery and atrocities in those days, and in the Old Night that followed.

When men and women spoke in low tones of the nightmares of Terra before Unification, before the coming of the Emperor, they spoke of tales of horror committed by him, even if they did not know it. For centuries, Malcador had drowned himself in atrocity and hedonism, reigning as one of the most feared warlords of Terra. He had built an empire soaked in blood, and he had enjoyed every second of it.

How small-minded he had been then.

In the end, it had brought him little joy. He had only been trying to bury the pain, Malcador understood that now. But it had left him hollow until his enemies had taken advantage of his inattention and arrogance to bring his empire crumbling down, forcing him to flee into hiding among the Sigillites.

Strangely, he had found some measure of peace among them, being a historian and curator rather than a conqueror and warlord. In those quiet days, Malcador had learned to master himself in ways that thousands of years as a soldier and warlord had not taught him. But still, it had all seemed…hollow.

Then the Emperor had come. His old teacher and mentor, reborn amid the fires of strife, ready to save the galaxy. They had met once more, and the Emperor had spoken of his glorious vision, of mankind united and ascendant, of a galaxy with peace and order restored.

Malcador had been enchanted. True, he had not fully believed it was possible, but here at last was a dream worth fighting for.

A dream worth dying for, even if it never came to pass.

From that day onwards, Malcador had pledged himself to the Emperor's cause, willing to do anything and everything to ensure that his vision became reality.

"It was worth it, yes," Malcador said finally, as Fo began to squirm in his seat. "And legions of monsters? Come now, my friend. How hypocritical of you. The Thunder Warriors and Space Marines are hardly any worse than your own creations."

Fo was a genewright who had survived the Age of Strife by selling his services to the mightiest warlords of Terra, promising them eternal youth, immortality, and invincible armies.

Malcador himself had employed him, once upon a time.

And he had delivered, Malcador had to concede. Fo truly was a genewright beyond compare, and there were none save Astarte herself in the Imperial Biotechnical Division who could claim to be his peers. He had crafted terrors beyond compare for Malcador, soldiers that had surpassed any other Terra had seen until the coming of the Thunder Warriors.

"That is not the same and you know it," Fo snapped back. "I am a scientist. Your Emperor and his creations," Fo's face twisted in disgust. "He and they are something else entirely. And for all that he may claim his creations are human science and nothing more, I know better."

Malcador snorted derisively. "I see you have still not overcome your delusional self-righteousness," he said scornfully. "The only difference between you and the Emperor is that my liege has been successful in conquering Terra. Nothing more, and nothing less."

Fo had taken apart a thousand innocent beings beneath his scalpels and conducted hundreds of experiments that would have made even the most hardened veterans of the Unification Wars balk. His hands were stained with as much blood as the Emperor's and Malcador's own.

Fo glowered. "I have no more interest in this discussion!" he snapped. "What is the point of this charade? You have captured me. Kill me and be done with it."

Malcador smiled, sipping from his cup. Fo had been captured but a handful of days previously, on Luna. That was where he had sought refuge after vanishing from Terra several decades prior, and now that Luna had been subjugated, he had been seeking to flee the solar system itself, using a small, experimental starship.

In other circumstances, he might have successfully escaped, but not this time.

"You don't believe I'm going to conscript you into the Imperium's service?" Malcador asked, pouring himself more tea. "That is the only use you have, after all…"

Fo rolled his eyes, insolent as always. "Do not play games with me. You do not need my service," he sneered. "I've seen what your Emperor is capable of, of what he's done in recent years. I was there on Luna when it was transformed, I saw what was once a thoroughly dead planetoid come alive beneath my feet. Loathe as I am to admit, your master outstrips me in every way. I have nothing that could improve on his work."

In that, Fo was correct. Before Isha, the Emperor would have gladly conscripted Fo into the Biotechnical Division, with the carrot or the stick.

Since Isha…well. As with so many other things, her presence meant that Fo was useless to the Imperium now.

But perhaps not to Malcador.

"You are correct. The Imperium does not need you. But I require your services."

Fo eyed Malcador suspiciously. "For what?"

"Listen carefully, and you will know. And if you serve me well, I will reward you. You will have your freedom and your life, but only if you do not fail me. If you do fail me, or worse, betray me…you will wish I had only killed you."

Fo still looked wary. No doubt he remembered how Malcador had once made his court dance like puppets with words not dissimilar to the ones he was using for Fo right now.

But at the end of the day, Fo had no other choice. He could serve Malcador, or he could end up like the thousands of other fools who had crossed the Sigillite over the centuries.

"Very well," Fo said grudgingly. "What do you want?"

"Oh, don't worry. I won't ask for anything you don't want to give," Malcador said genially, putting his empty cup down.

"To begin with, you have been on Luna for several decades now. You must know many of the secrets of the Selenar Cults and their masters, correct?"

"A few," Fo conceded. "I was never in the confidence of the High Matriarch herself, as a 'filthy Terran', but I am aware. But…that is all you want? The knowledge of the inner workings of the Selenar?"

His confusion was almost palpable. He knew well that Malcador could rip the knowledge from his mind effortlessly.

Malcador chuckled. "No, no. That is simply the beginning. I have a project for you, perhaps your greatest project yet."

"Which would be?"

"To forge a vessel," Malcador answered. "Tell me, Basilio, have you ever heard of the Men of Gold?"