The chamber remained heavy with silence as Magnus's voice faded, his opening statement hanging in the air. The crowd shifted, whispers muted but insistent as they exchanged hurried thoughts. Magnus eyed the crowd. Most of them, he knew, stood against him. It was just as Sukuna said: it was a trial against him, against the Thousand Sons. Malcador stepped forward, his staff tapping the stone floor once again, commanding attention.
"Does anyone wish to respond to the Primarch's statement?" Malcador's voice rang out, measured but expectant. His gaze swept the assembly.
A single figure rose from the crowd, clad in gray armor adorned with runic etchings. Othere Wyrdmake, Rune Priest of the Space Wolves, stepped forward with an almost deliberate weight. His wolf-pelt cloak trailed behind him, his hand resting on the haft of his staff, carved with symbols of Fenris. His sharp eyes locked onto Magnus as he moved to the center of the chamber.
Magnus's brow lifted slightly, a faint flicker of surprise crossing his face. Behind him, Ahriman shifted, his gaze narrowing as he watched Othere's approach. Magnus recognized the Rune-Priest as one of the few who Ahriman might've listed as friends from other legions, but he never quite trusted the Child of Rus.
"I would speak," Othere said, his voice rough but steady, carrying the unmistakable accent of Fenris. He turned to Malcador and bowed his head briefly before addressing the assembly. "I have fought alongside the Thousand Sons. I know them well. And I swear upon my oath to Leman Russ that they are warlocks, deceivers, and sorcerers."
A ripple of murmurs broke out across the chamber. Magnus's shoulders stiffened, and Ahriman's hands tightened into fists at his sides. The betrayal, Magnus mused, must've been rather devastating for Ahriman. Malcador raised his staff, silencing the noise.
"You make a grave accusation, Rune Priest," Malcador said evenly. "Do you have evidence to support your claim?"
Othere turned his sharp gaze back to Magnus, his expression unwavering. "I do. On Shrike and Aghoru, I saw the truth of the Thousand Sons. They wield power not as a tool but as a crutch, bending it to their will without restraint. They manipulate the Immaterium itself, inviting its corruption. They call it 'discipline,' but it is a façade. Their power comes from the same source that spawns daemons, that twists men into monstrosities. I have seen it with my own eyes."
Magnus's lips curled into a faint smirk, though his eye gleamed with cold intensity. "And what of you, Wyrdmake? Do you deny that you, too, are a psyker? That you call upon powers beyond mortal understanding? Your accusations are a tad hypocritical, don't you think?"
Othere's jaw tightened. "I am a Rune Priest. We do not draw from the Immaterium as you do, Magnus. The powers of Fenris are elemental. They are the storm, the frost, the fire of the earth. They are nature's fury, not the whispers of the Warp."
Magnus's smirk widened. "Nature's fury? Do you truly believe that your power is untouched by the Warp? That your 'fury' exists in a vacuum, independent of the Immaterium's influence? That sounds incredibly ignorant."
A sharp growl rose from Othere's throat. "Believe what you will, Magnus. But we of the Space Wolves do not see our brothers succumb to madness, as yours have. We do not see our powers corrupt our flesh or twist our souls. The Rune Priests wield the might of Fenris with purpose, not arrogance."
Ahriman stepped forward then, his voice calm but firm. "You speak of madness and corruption, Wyrdmake, but you ignore the truth. Discipline and understanding are what separate sorcery from folly. We have mastered what others fear. Your denial of the Warp's role in your power is ignorance, not purity."
Othere's eyes narrowed, his voice rising. "And yet your so-called mastery has led to ruin! I have fought beside your Legion. I have seen what happens when your 'discipline' fails. Men consumed by their own ambition, their bodies twisted into abominations. Tell me, Ahriman, how many of your brothers have fallen to the Flesh Change? How many more will?"
The words struck like a hammer, and a tense silence followed. Magnus's smirk vanished, replaced by a hard, unreadable expression. Ahriman's jaw clenched, his glare icy.
Malcador's voice broke the silence, calm but weighted. "These are serious allegations, Rune Priest. Is there anyone here who would corroborate your claims?"
From the elevated seats, Mortarion rose. His pallid form loomed above the assembly, his sickle-like weapon resting against his throne. His eyes, cold and unfeeling, fixed on Magnus.
"I will," Mortarion said, his voice low and grave. "The Rune Priest speaks the truth. Sorcery is a poison, a slow death that corrupts all it touches. I have seen it firsthand in my campaigns, where psykers lost control and brought ruin upon entire worlds. The Immaterium cannot be tamed, no matter how much you may delude yourself into thinking otherwise."
Mortarion stepped forward, descending a few steps to face the assembly more directly. "Magnus claims to have mastered these powers, but mastery over chaos is an illusion. The Immaterium is insidious. It twists and corrodes even the strongest will. The Thousand Sons are proof of this. Their power comes at a cost, one that the Imperium cannot afford."
Magnus's voice was quiet but sharp as a blade. "You speak of corruption, Mortarion, yet you condemn without understanding. You fear what you cannot control."
Mortarion's lip curled in disdain. "Fear? No, Magnus. I despise it. I despise what it does to men, to worlds. The Immaterium is a cancer, and you are its willing vessel."
The tension in the chamber was palpable, the air thick with unspoken accusations and simmering anger. Malcador raised his staff once more, his voice cutting through the rising whispers.
"Enough. This council is not a battlefield. If there are to be accusations, they will be heard in full, and Magnus will have the opportunity to respond. We are here to deliberate, not to quarrel."
The assembly quieted, though the undercurrent of tension remained. Magnus's gaze lingered on Mortarion and Othere, his expression calm but his eye blazing with controlled fury. He stepped forward once more, his staff clicking against the stone as he addressed the assembly.
"Very well," Magnus said, his voice steady. "You have spoken your accusations. Now, allow me to present the truth."
"Why is Horus even under suspicion?" Sukuna muttered, his voice sharp, cutting through the still air. His tone wasn't questioning; it was mocking, laced with irritation. There was no one around to hear him – no advisors, no soldiers, no subordinates – to actually answer the question. But the words needed to be said. Let the empty halls of his fortress on Shibuya echo them back.
The logic didn't add up. The Emperor had declared that the Warmaster, whoever they were, would inevitably betray the Imperium. Horus was chosen, and so, by the Emperor's own decree, Horus would rebel. Sukuna frowned, his four arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against a massive console, its glowing runes casting faint light over his sharp features. It was absurd. Horus had shown no signs of rebellion, no whispers of treachery. In fact, Horus was as loyal as anyone could reasonably be. Maybe even more so than most of them.
"Yet he's the traitor," Sukuna scoffed, his lips curling in disdain. He shifted, pushing himself upright. His claws tapped lightly against the metal surface of the console as he paced the room. The rhythm was irregular, his mind too busy to care for symmetry. The Emperor didn't even seem sure of how or why Horus would fall. Just that it would happen.
"What nonsense."
The Emperor's reasoning grated on him. It was circular, almost lazy. Sukuna hated waste, and what was this if not a colossal waste of time, energy, and thought? The Primarchs were warlords, tools for expansion and conquest. There was no reason to second-guess them unless they faltered. Horus hadn't faltered. Not yet.
And still, the Emperor was watching him. Watching them all.
Sukuna exhaled sharply, a derisive snort escaping as he stopped his pacing. He didn't think of the Emperor as a father, or even as a figure deserving of reverence. The Emperor was simply the Emperor. Stronger than Sukuna, and therefore the one in charge. That was the extent of their dynamic, no matter how casual they might've been. Sukuna followed orders because that was the natural order of things. Might made right. Simple.
It didn't mean he agreed.
The Emperor's orders had been clear: Sukuna was to prepare his Legion. They were to be ready for anything, and so the Emperor had granted him even greater access to the Imperium's arsenal. Weapons other Legions could only dream of wielding were now at Sukuna's fingertips. Men of Iron – shackled, of course – marched in perfect unison across the sprawling factories of Shibuya. He disliked making use of them as they really weren't all that powerful – deadlier, perhaps, than a baseline Astartes, but nothing compared to even the weakest member of the Devourers.
Black Wing Squadrons, sleek and deadly, roared through the skies in endless drills, their contrails carving jagged lines into the atmosphere. And deeper still, in hidden forges and vaults, other monstrosities took form, machines and weapons designed to tear through enemies like wildfire. And, like the other Black Wing Squadrons already under his disposal, these ones were guided and controlled entirely by a shackled artificial intelligence, granting them perfect maneuverability and coordination, far beyond what even his Devourers were capable of – the ones who were inclined to being pilots, at least.
Recruitment for the Devourers was also surging across Shibuya, though he'd not heard of any passers just yet, since the requirements remained as strict and as punishing as they've ever been. Still, many were trying and he had no doubt that a few dozen would probably be inducted into the ranks of the Devourers by the year's end.
It should have been satisfying. It wasn't.
Sukuna hated the idea of wasting lives, and this all felt wasteful. Every strike calculated, every soldier a tool sharpened to perfection. Sacrifices were made only when necessary. A war against the Luna Wolves, weaker though they were, individually, would be costly – not to mention all the other Primarchs who'd probably side with Horus, like that poor brute, Angron, who was only waiting for a chance to lash out against the Imperium and the Emperor. Yet here he was, preparing for a conflict he couldn't name, against an enemy that didn't yet exist.
Orders were orders, though. And so, instead of attending Magnus's trial – a spectacle Sukuna would have enjoyed, if only to see the squabbling – he was here, overseeing the marshaling of his forces. Shibuya's massive industrial complexes buzzed with activity, the air thick with the hum of machinery. Endless rows of Black Wing gunships gleamed under harsh floodlights, their crews moving like clockwork to ensure their readiness. Titan-grade war machines loomed in their cradles, their forms monstrous even in stillness, but these were not quite the same colossal machines used by the Collegia Titanica. No, these ones were lesser in power, but far easier to operate and manufacture, meant to be used in swarm tactics.
Sukuna stood on a balcony overlooking it all. The city below was a cacophony of sound and movement, the very heartbeat of war preparation. He tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing as he surveyed the chaos.
"It's all so pointless," he muttered. His voice was low, more to himself than anyone else. The Emperor wanted him to prepare, but for what? To strike down Horus when the time came? To prove his loyalty yet again? It was exhausting. Horus wasn't his problem. None of his brothers were. Sukuna barely tolerated their existence, let alone their antics, but he'd never been hostile to them and none of them had ever been hostile to him.
He sighed, his arms dropping to his sides. The weight of his claws dragged faintly against the rail. The truth of it was simple: he obeyed because he had to. The Emperor's strength kept them all in line, and as much as Sukuna hated wasted lives, he wasn't eager to waste his own challenging the throne. At least not yet.
"Better to sharpen the blade and wait," Sukuna muttered, his lips curving into a faint smirk. His gaze drifted upward, toward the distant stars. Somewhere out there, Horus was walking a path he didn't yet know he was on.
Orders were orders. But that didn't mean Sukuna had to like them.
AN: Chapter 51 is out on (Pat)reon!