Chapter 13: The Devil Is Coming
Regret.
Utter, bone-deep regret.
Kor Phaeron had never regretted anything so fiercely in his long, wretched life.
If only he had left earlier. If only he had trusted his instincts and fled while his legs still carried him. Now it was too late.
He had heard things no mortal was meant to hear.
Wars between gods.
The truth of the warp.
The reason the Emperor acted as he did.
Lorgar sat beside him, silent and pale, his mind clearly struggling to contain what Erebus had revealed.
The Emperor was not merely leading humanity forward.
He was at war.
Not with xenos. Not with rebels.
With gods.
Erebus had spoken calmly, almost casually, of the Great Enemy — of entities beyond the veil clawing for entry into the material universe. He spoke of civilizations that had destroyed themselves not through conquest, but through worship. Entire species that had begged their gods for annihilation, and been answered.
Pantheons reduced to ashes.
Faith turned into extinction.
The less humanity knew of the warp, Erebus had said, the better. Temptation was everywhere. Only the disciplined survived. Only secrecy prevented corruption.
And Lorgar — Lorgar most of all — would draw their gaze.
"You are the Emperor's son," Erebus had said. "They will watch you. If you fall, humanity follows."
Lorgar had closed his eyes then, breathing slowly, as though steadying himself against a great weight pressing down upon his soul.
Kor Phaeron, by contrast, had nearly collapsed.
When Erebus explained that their so-called baptism had already drawn hostile attention from the warp, Kor Phaeron's face drained of color. He instinctively released a faint psychic pulse, scanning the chamber in blind terror.
"Lorgar," he croaked, suddenly remembering he was supposed to be a father, "you are my son. You must protect me."
Erebus snorted.
Coward.
But plans did not pause for fear.
That same night, Erebus and Lorgar reorganized everything.
First came the Pilgrim Heralds — itinerant preachers and missionaries who would spread the Imperial Truth from city to city. Only the most disciplined believers would be chosen. Faith alone was insufficient; they needed strength, resolve, and the willingness to kill if necessary.
Then came something darker.
The Veiled Watchers.
Not named publicly. Not acknowledged in doctrine.
Their task would be internal purification.
They would be divided into three silent orders: one to watch the warp, one to watch the alien, and one to watch humanity itself.
Lorgar did not know it yet, but he was laying the foundations for something that would one day resemble the Inquisition.
Doctrine followed.
Lorgar would write it himself.
The Emperor, they declared, walked among humanity as a man. As such, humanity was permitted error — and correction. This allowed faith without absolute blasphemy, devotion without demanding divine perfection.
A necessary loophole.
Erebus insisted on it.
He had no intention of watching Lorgar shatter when the Emperor inevitably rejected worship.
One Horus was more than enough.
By dawn, the Covenant Church no longer existed.
A new faith stood in its place — unstable, contradictory, and terrifyingly effective.
A new day rose.
Erebus studied his reflection in the mirror.
He was taller.
Stronger.
Whatever lingered outside that glass coffin in his dreams had been feeding him something. He did not like it — but he could not deny its usefulness.
One day, he would ask the Emperor about it.
If nothing else, it would make for a fascinating conversation.
He stepped outside and found Jarulek waiting.
The young man bowed deeply.
"Lord Erebus."
Erebus sighed.
"No titles. We are all servants of the Emperor."
Jarulek nodded seriously, missing the sarcasm entirely.
"…Understood."
Lorgar had assigned him to Erebus personally.
Erebus had requested no women. He trusted nothing associated with pleasure. Experience had taught him that such things ended poorly.
"Speak," Erebus said.
"We discovered heretics last night," Jarulek reported. "They attempted a summoning ritual."
Erebus's expression hardened.
"Take me there."
If they had succeeded, this world would already be condemned.
The ritual site was crude. Blood-carved sigils. A sacrificed body at the center of a tent. Crusaders stood nearby, grim and shaken.
Erebus knelt, inhaled slowly.
Warp residue.
Faint. Pink-tinged.
Slaanesh.
His gaze followed the trace instinctively.
It led him away from the ritual site — to another encampment.
Women washing uniforms. Laughing. Smiling.
Too clean.
Too calm.
Erebus stopped in front of one kneeling figure, eyes closed in exaggerated devotion.
He struck her without warning.
The crack echoed.
"How dare your master let you stand before me," Erebus snarled.
The woman screamed in shock.
"I—I don't understand!"
Erebus kicked her backward, sending her sprawling.
"I can smell the warp on you," he growled. "Your patron reeks."
Jarulek immediately opened his notebook.
Faith, after all, must be recorded.
And somewhere, just beyond sight, something laughed.