Author's Note: For those interested, there are now eight advance chapters on P-atreon (remove the spaces and dash): p-atreon/ SkySage24.
Prospero was a beautiful planet.
The great pyramids and shining obelisks under the bright sun, the clothing and names of the people…it all reminded George of Egypt, in days long gone.
Yet, it was also undeniably different. The obelisks were carved with runes, glowing with invisible power, shields against the teeming, swirling darkness. The peak of each pyramid glowed with a great beacon, lit by warpflame.
The streets were illuminated not by lamps but by glowing crystals hovering in mid-air. On a street, a man juggled fireballs to the delight of a few children. Elsewhere, more pyramids were being constructed by men and women levitating great blocks of stone and fusing them.
Magic was everywhere, the air itself heavy with the dense wards that were sunk into the very foundations of the city.
It was as impressive as it was disquieting.
Prosperan warpcraft was, of course, child's play compared to the secrets the Emperor himself knew. But he was… unique. The creation of ancient shamans and the Last of the Old Ones. He had inherited their knowledge, and had time to build upon it and refine it in an era when the Immaterium was still calm.
The children of Prospero had refined their craft and built their civilization in the fires of the Age of Strife, on a world plagued by dangerous psychic predators. Across the galaxy, psykers had been driven mad by the siren song of the Warp, becoming monsters, being possessed by daemons, or simply dying under the weight of their own power.
Such things were not unknown to Prospero, of course. But against all odds, the people had persevered, taking each trial as a lesson to be learned from, and honed their warpcraft until they had built a stable psychic civilization in a galaxy gone mad.
Prospero was a testament to humanity's potential, a glimpse of the bright future that the Emperor dreamed of for mankind, where they had mastered the Warp and all its dangers.
Yet, it worried him. Prospero was vulnerable, a target that would attract the greed of the Chaos Gods, and Tzeentch in particular, even if Magnus had not landed here.
And Magnus was here, his son a bonfire amid the countless sparks that were the people of Prospero, burning brightly in the Immaterium, attracting the attention of all sorts of dangers in a way none of the other Primarchs would.
"Father?"
George turned his attention away from the city, instead smiling down at his son. Magnus had grown taller and broader since the last time they had spoken, his great mane of hair longer. It was to be expected, that George had designed the Primarchs to mature rapidly.
At the same time, it still hurt to see his son grow so quickly and leave his childhood behind.
But it wasn't as if George had anyone to blame but himself.
It was for the best. The Primarchs were scattered across the galaxy, beset by unknown dangers. It was for the best that they had the strength and intellect to defend themselves as soon as possible.
(And yet…)
"What is it, my son?"
Magnus chewed on his lip, looking surprisingly uncertain for once. "Are you…impressed?"
George cocked an eyebrow. "With what?"
"The wards!" Magnus said, almost indignant. "I designed the wards that protect the city from the psycheunin."
For a moment, George was genuinely surprised. Then, as he scanned the wards in more detail, he realized that it truly was Magnus's work. They were brilliant and intricate, well-equipped to protect the city indeed.
How remarkable.
"The work is most impressive, my son," George said with a smile, squeezing his son's shoulder with a spectral hand. "I have rarely seen such extraordinary work."
Magnus beamed, delighted by the praise. Still a child in so many ways, despite his growth.
Part of George was tempted to continue the discussion, to teach Magnus more about wards and how to refine the ones he had already set…but he could only afford to be here for a limited time.
"But there is something I wanted to ask you, Magnus," The Emperor said, adopting a more sombre tone. "Have you been approached by any spirits of the Warp?"
Magnus blinked, confused by the sudden change of topic. "Huh? No, I haven't."
His son was telling the truth. Good.
But focusing on Magnus, the Emperor could see it: the dark scar buried so deeply in his son's soul that it was impossible to find even for him. Unless he was looking for it.
It was, to the Emperor's relief, nothing that would hurt Magnus. It would not corrupt him, nor would it give Tzeentch a way to influence his decisions or actions.
But it was, to the Emperor's rage, the mark of a curse, something that Tzeentch had used to poison the Fifteenth Legion. Magnus was too strong, the protections the Emperor had woven into his flesh and soul too potent for the curse to do anything to him.
But that wasn't the point. The point was that it gave Tzeentch a vector to influence the Fifteenth.
What was the purpose behind it? Merely to deprive the Emperor of a legion? To corrupt them and spread a plague through the Imperium's ranks?
Obviously, the original plan had been disrupted by Isha's negation of the physical aspect of the curse. But still, the danger remained.
The Emperor itched to burn the curse out from his son's soul…but he could not. He was not truly here on Prospero, and even if he was, he might hurt Magnus in the process. Perhaps even kill him.
He would have to consult Isha on the matter of how best to deal with the curse, but for now, no matter how much it pained him, the Emperor would have to let the matter lie.
Damn you, Tzeentch.
"Father?" Magnus said again. "Why do you ask?"
"Nothing," George assured his son. "I just wanted to check. We have discussed the dangers of the warp and the spirits within. Forgive an old man his fretting," He ruffled the boy's red mane, smiling as Magnus batted the hand away indignantly.
"Father!" Magnus complained, trying to fix his hair.
George chuckled before his smile faded. "I'm afraid I must go now, Magnus."
The Primarch's face fell at the news. "Do you have to? You haven't even been here an hour."
"I'm afraid I must," George said gently. "There are other matters that require my attention. I wish I could stay, but being Emperor comes with many responsibilities, my son. You will learn that, someday."
His son's mouth drew into an expression that was unmistakably a sullen pout, though Magnus would no doubt object if George called it such.
"If you say so," Magnus mumbled, for all the world looking exactly like an oversized toddler.
George sighed, but what else could he say? He could never be a father to the Primarchs as he had been to his other children in ages past.
The state of the galaxy, his own duties, and their very nature made that impossible.
Giving Magnus one last pat on the head, George faded away in a shower of golden light.
On Terra, the Emperor opened his eyes.
He stood, brushing himself off. That had been a pleasant break, but now, it was time to get back to work.
With a thought, he vanished, reappearing in the labs where he had left Isha.
The Eldar warp-construct was sitting on a chair, frowning as she typed out notes on a dataslate.
"Any progress?" He asked briskly. It would have been an unreasonable demand to make of any mortal, but from Isha, it was only to be expected that she accomplish something by now.
To his surprise, Isha shook her head, frown deepening. "No. The curse is intricate and well-woven, and as I said, such spells are not my area of expertise."
The Emperor scowled. "Nothing has worked?"
"I tried giving them Dreamstones," Isha answered, a score of the dazzling gems circling around her, appearing as if from nowhere. "But as I expected, they failed. The Dreamstones are a shield, but they cannot root out what is already there."
It made sense, and yet, it was deeply annoying.
The Emperor had not wished it to come to this, but if he wanted to avoid the loss of an entire Legion…well.
"I have something that may be of help with that," The Emperor said reluctantly.
"Oh?" Isha asked, dismissing the Dreamstones as she eyed him curiously.
Taking a deep breath, the Emperor let long-suppressed parts of him surface. The Golden King receded, allowing a past life to surface.
His form flickered and changed, golden armour replaced by black robes, his skin lightening from bronze to marble white and his hair flickering to bright gold.
The influence of the Emperor was still there. The golden armour had lessened, become sleeker and more sparse, but it was there beneath the robes. The Witch's hair was not pure gold but had streaks of black still, and her eyes were still the molten gold of the Emperor, not voids of pure darkness.
But it was still undeniable that the Witch had come to the fore. She breathed in deeply, flexing her fingers and looking down at herself.
It had been so long since she was alive, since she was more than a shadow lingering at the back of the Emperor's mind. The others…they got to experience some measure of life, for as the Shaman had said, the Emperor was the sum of them all.
But she was the part he had always denied, the life he did not wish to acknowledge unless it was useful.
This was only temporary. She was dead and nothing could change that, the Emperor was dominant now. Even if he wanted to, he could not give her control for long periods of time.
But for now, however short it was…it was good to be alive again.
The Witch looked at Isha and smiled coyly at the startled Eldar Goddess of Life, delighting in the rare expression of shock unmarred by anger or fear.
But Isha was only on the backfoot for a moment, recovering easily. A little disappointing, if the Witch was to be honest.
"I didn't realize you had this Aspect," Isha said, her words lilting with an unspoken question.
"I have my secrets," The Witch said offhandedly, declining to answer the question. None of her lives wished to discuss the matter with Isha, even with all that they had shared with her.
Fortunately, Isha didn't seem inclined to press, though she was clearly curious. But she was also practical.
"You are the Emperor's mystic-aspect, then? Can you unravel the curse?"
"Not quite" The Witch said evasively. "Though, yes, curses are under my purview. I do not know if I can unravel it, but I can certainly take a look."
"I see," Isha said slowly, the brilliant mind behind those eyes whirling with the implications.
The Witch marched towards Legion Master Ahriman once more, who remained unconscious, put to sleep by Isha's spell.
Passing through the energy field that blocked the cell, the Witch loomed over the slumbering Astartes.
Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dispelled Isha's spell.
Ahriman awoke with a scream, his eyes alight with madness.
"None of that," The Witch murmured, snapping her fingers and paralyzing Ahriman with invisible chains. "Now, let's have a look at that curse of yours."
The Witch delved straight into her subject's soul, locating the curse and analyzing it.
It really was a devious little thing, as to be expected of Tzeentch. It could not be described with words from any human language, but an apt metaphor would be that the curse was a poisoned syringe, buried deep in Ahriman's soul and filled with a liquid that alternately shimmered blue and pink, a poison radiating malice.
Or rather, it had been. The syringe was only half-full.
The physical aspect of the curse that Isha had negated, obviously.
But the mental aspect remained. The wound where the syringe had been buried continued to fester, rot and infection setting in.
Could the Witch pull the syringe out? Perhaps.
Could she do it without killing Ahriman? Doubtful.
Perhaps if she and Isha collaborated, they could do something. The Witch to remove the curse, Isha to heal the wound.
Pulling back out, the Witch flexed her fingers.
"Are you done?" Isha said from next to her, mildly disapproving.
"Oh yes," The Witch said, shrugging carelessly.
Giving her a look, Isha put Ahriman back to sleep, removing the chains that bound him. "There was no need to be so harsh."
"Perhaps," The Witch allowed. "But it was the most expedient way. In any case, I-"
She paused as she felt a psychic message pressing against the wards around the Biotechnical Division.
Malcador, of course.
The Witch sighed in annoyance, feeling the Emperor surge back to the surface. But she didn't stop him.
A moment later, the Emperor of Mankind stood there once more, as if he had never been gone.
He allowed Malcador's mind to pass through the wards and tensed as he heard the urgent words from his old friend.
+Luna has rebelled.+