The Emperor stood at the tall window, arms crossed behind his back. Warm light filtered through the golden arches of his private sanctum, lending a glow to the ornate marble floor. A hush hung in the air, broken only by the occasional whisper of servo-skulls drifting by. Outside, the spires of the Imperial Palace glinted under a wan sun, and beyond them stretched the endless city that was once Terra.
News had reached him that Angron was gone, lost in some void-forsaken corner of the galaxy. More precisely, the latest reports indicated Angron had attacked someone—someone unexpected—and then disappeared after losing quite handily. Sanguinius suggested the World Eater Primarch might have died. The Emperor's expression tightened at that. He disliked losing tools, especially the kind that had once served a purpose, but he disliked wasted resources even more. Angron had been a flawed creation from the start, damaged by xenos technology that twisted his mind, but he was both a tool and an important resource–a madman, to be certain, but a useful one.
Still, the Emperor had hoped to fix him one day, or at least salvage something from the wreckage. The only method that might've worked was to simply let Angron die and recover his soul before implanting it onto a new Infant Primarch. He didn't immediately do that, simply because the process of creating a new Primarch would've taken far too long. And cloning was not an option.
A robed attendant slid into the chamber, head bowed.
"My Lord Emperor," she said softly, voice trembling. "Lord Malcador has arrived."
The Emperor gave a slight nod. "Show him in."
She bowed, stepping aside to let the Sigillite enter. Malcador moved in measured steps, gray cloak trailing behind him. He clasped his staff of office, its top carved with the sigil of the Imperium, and approached without ceremony. His lined face was impassive, eyes keen.
The Emperor turned to face him. Gold filigree on his armor caught the last rays of sun, shimmering like captured fire.
"Angron is gone," he stated, voice low. "The reports from Sanguinius, Dorn, and Rus confirm. They say he attacked someone called Argall. They presume Angron died in the attempt."
Malcador inclined his head, lines creasing at the corners of his eyes.
"Yes. The data arrived hours ago. I studied it." He paused. "You had hopes for Angron's redemption, even after all this time?"
The Emperor's expression flickered. He lifted a gauntleted hand, pressing it against the windowsill. "Once, yes. But these are trifles. Angron was a shattered tool from the start. The Butcher's Nails all but consumed him. My disappointment is overshadowed by another matter."
Malcador gave a slight tilt of his head. "You speak of this Argall?"
The Emperor's lips formed a thin line. "Yes. A lost son. The Primarch I never found. Or one I assumed lost forever. The others call him Argall, ruling a so-called Hyperborean Collective. They have advanced technology. They refused compliance. Now they stand at war with the Imperium, thanks to Angron's ill-timed assault."
A servo-skull hovered near, but the Emperor dismissed it with a glance. He gestured for Malcador to follow him across the chamber. They stopped before a wide table bearing star charts and strategic hololiths. The Emperor tapped a control. A sector map flickered to life, highlighting several scattered systems. He pointed to one region with swirling lines. "The last known location of Sanguinius, Dorn, and Russ. They encountered Argall's forces here. They have not pinned down the exact coordinates of his homeworld."
Malcador studied the hololith, hands folded at his waist. "Argall. Another son. That complicates matters. The technology gap is said to be formidable, yes?"
"Sanguinius claims these Hyperboreans used advanced weapons, maybe on par with relics from the Dark Age. They also field augmented soldiers, strong enough to match Astartes in close combat. And yet, I've viewed the recordings; those warriors were more than just a match, they were outright superior." The Emperor's voice hardened. "Regardless, we have no idea just how massive this Hyperborean Collective is. We don't know if they control just one planet or several systems."
Malcador raised a brow. "A direct crusade would be messy."
The Emperor's jaw tightened. "Indeed. The Imperium could eventually crush them through sheer might, but at a cost I find unacceptable–assuming they're ever found. The galaxy teems with other threats. I cannot divert endless resources for one rogue civilization, especially not one that is ruled by a Primarch."
He moved away from the table, pacing a short distance. The metal joints of his armor rasped softly.
"And Argall…." He paused, eyes distant. "Do you remember what we once spoke of? He was fated for something else. The Arkifane. Vashtorr. It had been a certainty that one of my sons would become the Arkifane, forging terrible engines of chaos. It was a future that was set in stone, an unchangeable canon event. And then it changed. In what seemed like a snap, the Arkifane disappeared–the very idea of it vanishing from the Immaterium forever."
Malcador dipped his head. "Yes, I remember. The Arkifane's thread vanished. I felt it as well, though not with the same precision as you did, old friend. You suspect Argall was the one meant to bear that cursed mantle, yet it never manifested?"
The Emperor nodded.
"The warp's strands collapsed around that possibility. I gleaned a vision: the Arkifane ceased to be a fixed point in time. Something severed that thread. Now Vashtorr does not exist. That alone is a relief." He let out a breath. "But Argall remains a wildcard. If destiny can be twisted once, it can be twisted again. "
Malcador gazed at him, quiet for a moment. "Sanguinius found Argall rational, at least. Diplomacy was nearly secured. Then Angron's arrival doomed that effort. Now the Hyperboreans blame the Imperium for the attack."
The Emperor's expression darkened.
"Angron. A final complication. War might have been avoided if not for his bloodlust." He ran a hand across his face, the gesture abrupt. "As if I needed more problems."
Malcador remained still. "So what do you propose?"
The Emperor stared at the sector map. "I will go. I won't let another conflict spiral out of control. Let Sanguinius, Dorn, and Russ focus on locating Argall's homeworld. Once we find it, I will handle the next step personally."
Malcador eyed the Emperor warily. "You intend to speak with Argall face to face?"
"Yes. I would prefer negotiations to open war. We can salvage Angron's fiasco." He clenched a fist. "I issue a command: all military and naval activity in that region halts until further notice. I will not let lesser admirals or generals bungle this. We can't afford another disastrous contact. My son is the ruler of his own empire"
Malcador's lips pressed thin. "Is that wise? The Hyperboreans might fortify, gather strength. They might strike at us first if they sense weakness."
"If they do, we respond. But from what I glean, Argall does not desire wanton slaughter. He wants to protect his people. Let him see we can cease hostilities as well." Silence settled. The Emperor stepped around the table, a star map at the center. He let his gaze fall on a specific system marking: the approximate location where Angron vanished. "I lament the Butcher's Nails. I lament Angron's final moments, if indeed he is lost. But he was broken from the start. A shame, yes, but not unexpected. My bigger concern is Argall's existence, and the threat or hope it represents."
"He might be hostile. He might see your arrival as a challenge." Malcador's tone was cautious. "We know little about him."
A slight curve touched the Emperor's lips, though there was no humor in it. "Let him resent me if he wishes. But I must try. This path was never simple. Fate was shattered. The Arkifane was undone. Maybe that new freedom extends to Argall as well."
He lifted a finger, tracing a route across the holographic map. "Sanguinius, Dorn, and Russ remain near these coordinates. I'll have them dispatch all relevant data, then redeploy to find Argall's world. Once a location is established, I shall arrive. With minimal escort. No more fleets, no more aggression."
Malcador dipped his chin. "Your will be done, old friend."
The Emperor turned away from the map, crossing the chamber to a wide balcony. He slid the heavy door open, letting in a breeze that carried the scent of Terra's smog-tinged air. He stared at the sprawl of the Palace's grounds and the sun's fading light in the distance. "Argall has a democratic society. That alone intrigues me. I have rarely encountered humans who reached such advanced technology under a structure like that. Usually, strongmen or tyrants take power. Yet Argall fosters a different path."
Malcador stepped up behind him, staff tapping lightly on marble. "One wonders if that fosters unity or fractures. The Hyperboreans appear cohesive. Their advanced weaponry testifies to well-organized research."
The Emperor nodded, quiet for a moment. "The Imperium was meant to unite humanity. But we never considered a model akin to Argall's, not on such a grand scale. Perhaps that's to our detriment, perhaps not."
He half-turned, glancing at Malcador from the corner of his eye. "Still, we must tread carefully. The Hyperborean Collective is unlike anything we've faced before. If war comes, it won't be easy."
Malcador parted his lips, gaze firm. "And if words fail? If your attempt at peace collapses? What then?"
The Emperor's face grew stony.
"Then we do what we must. But not until I try every single thing I can think of." He let a short breath escape. "I will not lose another son to ignorance or chance–not Argall, whose technological marvels might just take us closer to the ultimate victory we've dreamed of, old friend."
Malcador bowed, acknowledging the statement. A servo-skull drifted in, offering a whisper of a data-scroll to the Emperor's attention. He waved it aside, tired of small matters. "Argall possesses the soul of a nascent god of Invention and Innovation, uncorrupted. If he becomes an ally–a willing one–then his expertise may allow for greater chances of success in the construction of the Human Webway. The possibilities are endless. That is why Vashtorr would've been one of the greatest enemies. And that is why we cannot afford to be enemies with Argall."
"Understood," Malcador said, turning to go. "I will do what needs to be done and prepare what needs to be prepared."
The Emperor lingered at the balcony, listening as Malcador's footsteps faded. He stood alone, eyes on the horizon. A swirl of regret brushed across his thoughts—Angron, lost in unknown space, presumably dead. Once, the Emperor had placed high hopes in each Primarch, a vision of a perfect tool for conquest. Just about all of them were failures, but through no fault of their own. Erda, in the end, was to blame, but he forgave her, of course, by virtue of the fact that, at one point, he loved her and she loved him–and that they were the oldest of friends. But, as a result of her meddling, the Primarchs were scattered and reduced to shadows of their full potential. And, by the time he found them, it was quite too late to try and awaken their true selves–set as they were in the ways they'd learned from whatever world and people that raised them.
Curze, for instance, could've been so much more if only the Emperor was able to raise him, offer him training and guidance in the use of his power; then, maybe, he would've fulfilled his destiny as the Paragon of Nobility and Justice. Instead, the Emperor had to live with the fact that Curze was now just the Night Haunter and nothing more. The same was true for most. Even Sanguinius, who believed his secrets were truly hidden, was nowhere near his true potential, despite being the closest to achieving it and despite having the most of it.
Argall could have become the Arkifane. He was supposed to. But he didn't. Argall shattered his own fate–somehow–and was now a leader of his own nation.
AN: Chapter 63 is out on (Pat)reon!