The servitor poured the wine. The crimson liquid swayed gently in the glass. He remembered this as a gift from Magnus—wine from Prospero. Apparently, one of Magnus's sons loved collecting brewing methods from different planets and cultures across the galaxy, attempting to recover the lost techniques for exquisite wines from before the Old Night. It was said he had met with great success.
The vintage was mellow and pleasant, soft and smooth as it glided down his throat. Yet, in this moment, what he truly craved was a cup of murky Fenrisian ale—something strong enough to bypass a Primarch's metabolism, numb his nerves, and grant him the sensation of drunkenness.
Unfortunately... Russ had not come to this triumph.
He realized, with near-surprise, that he actually missed Russ.
Perhaps he should seek out Mortarion, the somber Lord of Death. He knew the customs of the Death Guard; Mortarion would share a specially blended concoction of complex toxins with those sons he deemed worthy. Perhaps that could serve as wine.
When the Emperor—when his Father—announced the decision, the Primarch of the Death Guard had said almost nothing. He had simply watched the scene with a cold, indifferent gaze. He was certain he would eventually secure Mortarion's loyalty, but for now, he suppressed the thought. After all, the poisonous draughts of Barbarus likely wouldn't taste very good.
"Brother."
The tent flap was nudged open. White wings swept inside, preceding their master. The Angel entered his vision with a smile—part joyful, part teasing, carrying a hint of harmless mischief. "Ah, forgive my intrusion. I suppose I should address you as Warmaster."
The Angel bowed gracefully. "What a grand title. To think you even kept it from me."
His lips moved slightly, forming a smile that was almost bitter.
The Angel blinked, speaking with a touch of disbelief: "So, Father kept it even from you."
"I thought it was you keeping it from me," he said, gesturing toward his own head.
"No." The Angel shook his head gently, folding his white wings behind him. "I did not foresee this."
Only then did he notice that, tucked beneath a wing, the Angel held a pale blue glass bottle of red wine. It had no label, only a few simple lines written in ink.
"I brought a bottle to celebrate with you. But seeing you now, it seems you'd prefer to be alone."
The Angel's voice was soft, tinged with playfulness. "I shall leave at once. I'll tell the others not to disturb you."
The Angel didn't even seem intent on leaving the wine behind.
He exhaled a heavy breath and waved his hand with a sense of resignation, gesturing for the Angel to sit. "Stay," he said.
"Me, or the wine?" The Angel lightly shook the bottle.
"Both." He made a gesture, signaling the servitor to set his status to "no visitors."
"This is a heavy burden. Father is leaving us, leaving the galaxy to us... to me."
He knew his smile was wretched. "Many say this position should have belonged to you."
"Strange. I feel it belongs exactly where it is." The Angel shrugged and placed the bottle on the table.
Intrigued, he picked up the bottle and examined it. "But my other brothers are not so kind," he said while looking it over. "Which planet is this from?"
"Baal. Made from Baalite grapes, grown on Baal. Speaking of kindness, didn't Dorn shake your hand?"
"Baal? You can actually grow grapes there? That is a miracle." He handed the bottle to the servitor, nodding for it to be opened and poured for them both.
"Yes, Dorn shook my hand. But that was all." He shook his head, sounding troubled.
"My friend, when a stone reaches out to shake your hand, you should marvel at its miraculous warmth rather than suspect it hates you," the Angel said with exaggerated flair. "Believe me, for Dorn, that gesture is an expression of absolute fealty and support."
He laughed in spite of himself. "Mortarion said nothing, but he isn't hard to deal with."
"Lorgar is enthusiastic enough, but honestly, his passion is a bit frightening."
"Fulgrim—the Phoenician—is happy to support me. I heard him cheering."
"Angron... is furious."
"When is he not?" the Angel countered.
"True enough." He nodded.
The servitor presented two glasses of liquid, more crimson than blood.
"Magnus's sons gave my own some advice. One of them even traveled to Baal to help us establish the vineyards and the winery."
"Then I am in luck. By the backsides of the Cthonian gangs, by the Emperor, by the Throne, and by the wolf-stench of Russ—what is this?"
With just one sip, his face contorted. A violent bitterness exploded in his mouth. For a second, he suspected Angron had sneaked into his throat while he wasn't looking to beat his tongue in a rage. Then, as he tasted further... it felt like Russ had jumped in too.
"How can it be this bitter?" he couldn't help but ask.
"Perhaps the climate of Baal affected the grapes. The Thousand Son who taught my children—Ahriman, I believe—took one sip of the finished product and declared it the most bitter moment of his life."
"But it doesn't matter. My sons and I will slowly cultivate and adjust the varieties, improve the techniques, and heal the land scarred by weapons of the Old Night. I believe we will have plenty of time."
The Angel looked at him, setting down his untouched glass. "Because you will take Father's place and lead us to honored victory, to the end of the Great Crusade. I believe this with all my heart. You are not just Father's Warmaster; you are ours."
"And I will do everything in my power to help you, no matter how long it takes."
The torrent surged. Existence was converging. The Angel's form flickered, attempting to pull him from the flood and back into the material world. "I killed you once," he said, dazed. Fragmented visions flashed before his eyes—torn flesh, and then...
"It was He who killed us," the Angel said. "Come back, my brother... from the embrace of the Dark King..."
The Dark King...
His eyes widened. He felt another pull, distinct from the Angel's. He turned his head and saw it: chaos, darkness, distortion, extinction, death. Obsidian, a black sun, cold, hanging, silent. Terra, the Golden Throne, the Vengeful Spirit, an altar, an altar, an altar. He was the sacrifice—the last and first sacrifice for the Dark King. Sacrifice the blood. Sacrifice the body.
He was falling, dragged back toward that altar. The Angel was falling with him. Suddenly, his will cleared. He realized the mistakes he had made—and the one he was currently making. He understood that the Angel's soul was also dissipating, driven only by old promises and brotherly love, instinctively trying to bring him back without realizing the danger.
Bit by bit, he severed the connection between himself and the Angel. The Angel was terrified, angry, desperate, trying to re-establish the link. Wolf-God, the Angel called. Luna Wolf, the Angel called. Warmaster, the Angel called.
The Angel reached out to touch him again, but he fell. The Black Sun was summoning him, dragging him back to the altar. He could not be saved; he could not be taken away. He understood his existence with absolute clarity: he was an echo—the echo of the moment he was sacrificed to the Dark King, not a true being. He was destined to be a sacrifice. It was a fixed causality.
At that moment, a pale, round hand tore through the surging tide and grabbed the Angel. Simultaneously, the Black Sun fully claimed him. Black and white collided in a violent clash, and then the darkness receded into the depths, dragging him into the abyss of the Warp. The round hand pulled the Angel upward, the distance between them growing ever greater.
"Sacrifice."
"Horus Lupercal."
His name was recovered. His form remade. The tides of the Warp reshaped his will and cast him onto a sandy shore. Pale grit fell upon his shoulders. The dizzying, dim light made him feel nauseous and sick. He felt his will was shattered, the boundary between reality and illusion blurred. Some memories sank while others surfaced. Finally, he only vaguely remembered being washed away and broken, only to be reconstituted here and now.
Lupercal. Horus Lupercal. The name emerged from his mind. He reclaimed it. The name acted like a framework, locking his will, his thoughts, and his existence into a shape. The tide churned with pale foam, washing over him like a breaking dream. Horus struggled to rise from the greyish seawater, which flowed off his body and soaked the golden sands.
His Emperor-forged senses began to function, taking in his surroundings. Rain... a somber rain fell from a cloud-choked sky onto the beach. Strangely, the tide moved only forward, never retreating, slowly eroding the shore. Horus looked nearby. He saw an ancient church, almost entirely collapsed. Only ruins remained, bearing traces of primitive faith that had been erased and replaced with the icons and statues of the Imperial Creed. He even saw a half-toppled statue of Sanguinius. The ruins bore marks of fire and water damage alike. Where Horus stood must have once been part of the cathedral itself. With one breath, he detected staggering humidity. With a twitch of his nerves, he knew the planet was baking in high heat. His pupils contracted; he realized even the thick clouds couldn't filter out the intense ultraviolet radiation.
The environment of this planet was bizarre.
But this didn't occupy his mind for more than a nanosecond, for he sensed more critical information. One of Alpharius's twins stood nearby with a strange smile, watching him. On the other side of his body, a man covered in hideous scars, whose wings revealed bone and blood vessels and whose face was an uncanny mirror of the Emperor's, watched Horus with suspicion.
And between them, directly in front of Horus, was...
Ears. Pointed ears. A slender frame. A body with high-density muscle. A Xenos. An Aeldari. And an entity of the Warp at that. Was this one of the Aeldari gods?
"Horus Lupercal."
The Aeldari spoke, its voice ethereal. "My son."
"..."
Fury instantly flooded Horus's heart. His twin hearts hammered, pumping angry blood through his veins. "Xenos!"
Moving faster than thought, Horus crossed the distance. The Talon of Horus let out a bloodthirsty hiss as he swung the claws downward. But behind the Aeldari hung a battered eight-pointed star. Six of its points were shattered; only the north and west points remained intact. The western point flickered. The distance between Horus and the Xenos suddenly became impossible to determine. The Talon swept through empty air. Horus adjusted instantly. The twin-linked bolters built into the Talon roared, spitting a sequence of thunderous shells.
However, the ruined star behind the Xenos shuddered. The northern point collapsed, revealing a deep blue longsword covered in distorted human faces. The Xenos drew the sword, effortlessly parrying the bolter shells. The blade lunged toward Horus.
Drach'nyen!!
Horus recognized the daemon sword instantly. He raised the Talon to block. Sword and claw collided. To his horror, Horus found himself being overpowered.
"What are you..." He gritted his teeth, looking up at the creature, trying to find some clue.
Then, his eyes met the eyes of the entity. He saw the sun forged of obsidian.
"It is..." Horus's fingers trembled. He wanted to call him "Father," but looking at that Aeldari face, he couldn't bring himself to say it. The word stuck in his throat. Finally, it fermented into: "It is you."
The entity slowly withdrew the pressure of the blade and looked down at Horus, giving a slight nod.
"You..." Horus looked at the Aeldari form, his eyelid twitching uncontrollably. "How can you be inhabiting the body of a Xenos?"
The entity was silent for a moment. Then:
"This is no Xenos. This is a Psyker-specialized Abhuman."