Chapter 8: A Somewhat Unpleasant Banquet
2026-02-27 02:13:58 — Author: One-Sixty-Me
The Emperor was the first to stride forward.
The brilliant golden radiance still emanated from him, yet it was not blinding at this moment. The light did not come from the reflection of his armor — it was a kind of presence that seeped naturally from somewhere deep within him, the light that made mortals instinctively want to kneel, that made Astartes grip their weapons tighter, that made Primarchs feel simultaneously proud and yet somehow diminished.
Walking ahead, Perturabo noticed the Emperor's subtle "little trick." The corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly, and he let out a scoff so quiet it was barely audible — a rebuke aimed at the Emperor's psychic glamour.
The Emperor's psychic presence was genuinely captivating — Perturabo could feel it through his Iron Guard and the mortal attendants around him, sensing the intense waves of emotion surging through them. The data relayed through the neural cables gave him his first true glimpse of just how unreasonable and formidable this ability of the Emperor's actually was.
Perturabo walked straight toward the palace interior. His pace was neither hurried nor leisurely — each stride perfectly consistent, as though calculated with precision. Or perhaps more accurately: his instincts had long since carved this kind of "efficiency" into his very bones. The Emperor followed behind, and the others fell into step after him.
Calliphone and Andros were quietly grateful that they had followed Perturabo's instructions and installed roller wheels into the soles of their footwear. Without them, keeping pace with the strides of these giants would have been impossible even at a light jog — and the embarrassment would have been considerable.
What surprised them was the silver-haired old man. His footsteps were slow, yet he somehow always remained perfectly at the Emperor's side, his gait so natural and unremarkable that it drew no attention whatsoever.
How was that possible?
Calliphone and Andros were curious, but that wasn't the focus right now.
Horus walked close behind the Emperor — the First Returned, the Emperor's most cherished son, every movement carrying a confidence and grace that seemed to have been born into him.
The platinum-colored power armor he wore was adorned with golden laurel patterns, and his wolf-pelt cloak drifted gently in the artificial winds of Olympia. The look he fixed on Perturabo's back was complicated — curiosity in it, a barely perceptible trace of wariness, and that particular sense of responsibility that came with being a good elder brother, the need to hold everything in his hands.
Even though Perturabo's manner clearly shut all of them out, Horus was willing to be the one to break the ice.
Walking alongside him was the Lion, who matched his stride. The First Legion's Primarch kept his eyes sharp as blades, his scrutiny of the surroundings never relaxing — particularly when it fell upon the Abominable Intelligences standing motionless around them.
The presence of the Abominable Intelligences filled him with wariness toward the entire star system under Perturabo's control. The duty of the First Legion stirred in him an urge to simply call down an Exterminatus and wipe this whole system clean.
Russ's long grey hair whipped in the wind, his wolf-yellow eyes sweeping the surroundings as his nostrils flared slightly — "seeing" the world through scent. His power armor was covered in Fenrisian totems and decorations, and the Spear of Russ at his hip gleamed with a dangerous light.
When he caught sight of the Iron Guard standing in their neat ranks, his mouth split into a grin that was slightly savage, the tips of his fangs catching a cold glint.
"I like these pups — they're a match for the wolf-cubs back home on Fenris."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly through the whole of the surroundings. Perturabo offered no response, nor did anyone else.
Russ clicked his tongue, looking mildly bored.
Ferrus's gaze did not linger on the Iron Guard or the Abominable Intelligences. Instead it went directly to the palace structure — the precise joins, the perfect symmetry, the redundant load-bearing nodes built into every critical point. His brow furrowed slightly, as though evaluating something.
Fulgrim's power armor was so beautiful it hardly seemed made for combat. Its flowing lines were like frozen music, his purple cloak embroidered with a proud phoenix, the golden Imperial aquila inlaid across his breastplate lending him an air of unmistakable nobility.
His gaze swept across the surroundings — the standardized armor of the Iron Guard, the exposed cabling, the geometric architecture devoid of any ornamentation — and then his eyebrows lifted by an increment so small it was nearly imperceptible.
He wasn't impressed by this brother's aesthetic. There was nothing distinctive about it, nothing noble or graceful or refined.
Undeniably, they were an elite force — that much was evident even from the quality of their equipment alone, to say nothing of their bearing.
But a Primarch was a singular being. And was the Legion under his command truly to be built only to this kind of standard?
Fulgrim thought he might be able to help his brother elevate his taste. It wouldn't do to let the Imperium's reputation suffer.
Vulkan's frame was the most imposing of them all — even Magnus and Perturabo looked somewhat diminished beside his sheer bulk. Combined with his ferocious features and the snarling dragon heads carved into the thick green pauldrons of his armor, he looked every inch like a demon that killed without blinking.
And yet this terrifying giant was currently wearing an expression of genuine warmth — one might even say tenderness.
His gaze rested on the Iron Guard for a long moment, then drifted outward toward the city beyond — the hive-like residential blocks, the busy laborers, the Cybernetica constructs and Iron Circles on patrol through the streets. His smile softened slightly, but did not leave his face.
"They have enough to eat," he said, as if to himself. "Enough to wear. Work to do. That's already a great deal."
Compared to much of the Imperium, the world Perturabo governed was practically a paradise. Vulkan genuinely found himself wishing he could manage Nocturne with this kind of quiet order and stability.
Rogal Dorn's unyielding face and heavy armor made him move like a fortress walking, particularly with the Imperial eagle at his back — he looked like a living symbol of the Imperium wherever he went.
Among his brothers, he drew more attention than Fulgrim, at least in the eyes of the mortals around them — though neither he nor most of the other Primarchs had noticed this.
The Praetorian of Terra had not wasted any time taking in the surroundings. He had begun analyzing the defensive architecture before the Stormbird had even fully come to a stop.
The angled armor plating, the concealed firing points, the pre-positioned weapon platform emplacements — his mind processed all of it at a speed that defied ordinary comprehension, and then arrived at a conclusion that earned his approval: this brother, in this regard, was his equal.
He walked in silence, like a great stone.
The Lord of Macragge's stride was steady and unhurried, his blue power armor standing out distinctly against Olympia's somewhat grey backdrop. His gaze did not linger on architecture or weapons — he was looking at people.
The expressions on the faces of the Iron Guard. The eyes of the mortal attendants. The movement patterns of the Cybernetica constructs. Everything fell within his field of observation.
He noted the tension between the Emperor and Perturabo, dense enough to feel almost physical. He noted the slight furrow in Horus's brow. He noted the bestial alertness in Leman Russ.
His mind was already beginning to construct possibilities, responses, solutions. It was his nature — he preferred to solve problems and defuse situations before they could fully materialize, rather than remedying them after the fact, even though he was equally formidable at the latter and found himself in that position far more often than not.
Sanguinius walked at his side, his pure white wings still drawing the eye even folded as they were. He too said nothing, quietly reading the city around him through his psychic senses, his amber eyes carrying a light that went beyond pure reason.
Magnus walked with a faint hesitation, the Crimson King's mood complicated.
He had already seen much through his psychic senses aboard the Stormbird.
The Cybernetica constructs driven by logic engines, the automated control systems woven throughout everything, the vast computation network blanketing the entire city. He knew this violated his father's prohibition. But what shocked him even more was that this brother seemed to care not at all — and had the audacity to flaunt it openly in front of the Emperor himself.
How did he dare? And yet the Emperor had apparently let it pass. How had this brother managed that?
Magnus had too many questions without answers. His voracious curiosity was already straining at its leash, but he couldn't let it show.
Alpharius was concealed within the Custodian escort — one unremarkable Custodian among the rest.
The Custodians, along with Valdor, waited outside. This was not a banquet they had any place attending, and this was not Terra. They would not take liberties within a Primarch's territory without the Emperor's direct order.
So they stood there. The inhabitants of the citadel above would have liked to receive them, but the Iron Lord, who usually managed everything through various devices and channels, said nothing — which left those below in something of an awkward position.
Calliphone and Andros kept their expressions composed, but walking among these giants, how could their hearts be still? Standing face to face with a gathering of beings who might as well be gods — the visual and emotional impact of that was not something an ordinary person could easily absorb.
Horus's stateliness. The Lion's keen edge. Russ's wildness. Ferrus's gravity. Fulgrim's splendor. Vulkan's warmth. Dorn's steadfastness. Guilliman's acuity. Sanguinius's perfection. Magnus's depth. Each of them alone would have been enough to bring mortals to their knees in reverence — and all of them were here at once.
And especially the one walking at the front — the Emperor. Among mortals, his transcendent presence and magnetism were simply overwhelming.
Calliphone's palms were beginning to sweat. She was nervous.
Andros stood beside her. This brother of hers, who normally lost himself in sculpture and art, also looked somewhat on edge — but he kept his back straight, refusing to let himself appear weak before these people.
They were falling a little behind.
Perturabo's palace hall had never held this many people. No — to be more precise: it had never held this many gods.
The long tables were arranged in a U-shape. The head of the table was, naturally, for the Emperor — Perturabo had deliberated over this for a long time before ultimately deciding to give him that seat.
Twenty-seven places. He had considered all of his brothers and the Emperor's seat, and had not forgotten Malcador or Valdor either. Calliphone and Andros had seats. Even Eldrad — he had hesitated over that one for quite some time before finally adding it.
The Emperor and Malcador raised no objection to Perturabo's arrangements. They both found it a positive sign.
Perturabo, as host, was seated to the Emperor's right. He stood there and watched as his brothers filed in one by one, each wearing a different expression.
Horus was the first to enter the hall. His eyes swept over the arrangement of the long tables — the precisely placed cutlery, the angled wine glasses, the decoration that contained not a single superfluous element — and then he looked toward Perturabo and gave a quiet nod with a smile.
"You put care into this, brother."
"Efficiency," Perturabo replied, his face expressionless. "Unnecessary movement wastes time."
Horus's smile didn't waver, but something thoughtful moved behind his eyes. He walked to his seat — the first chair to the right of Perturabo, the seat of the First Returned. The seat to the Emperor's left had already been taken by Malcador.
The Lion followed behind him. He said nothing, only looked at Perturabo deeply as he passed — a look that held a great many things within it: scrutiny, assessment, wariness, and a trace of something almost imperceptible that might have been... approval? Perturabo did not look away.
The two held each other's gaze for a moment. Then the Lion shifted his eyes and walked to his seat.
Leman Russ was the third to enter. He walked straight to the long table, picked up one of the red crystal wine glasses, and turned it over in his hands with a frown.
"What's this?" he asked, his voice carrying across the entire hall.
"A wine glass," Perturabo said, watching him.
The corner of Russ's mouth curled with a flicker of disdain. He nearly put it straight back down — but the dangerous emanation coming off Perturabo made him think better of it, and he set the red crystal glass back in its place with deliberate care.
"A wine glass?"
Russ broke into a laugh — loud, rough, and unrestrained.
"Back home, we use things like this to feed milk to babies!"
He then unhooked an enormous metal flask from his belt and slammed it down on the table with a resounding —
BANG.
"This is a wine glass!"
"I'm using this. Let your precious little crystal darlings hold some fruit juice."
Perturabo did not get angry.
He paid no attention whatsoever to the provocative look in Russ's eyes.
Russ had expected some kind of reaction. The lack of one left him feeling oddly put out — as though he had simply been ignored. He opened his mouth, found he had nothing to say, and sat down in his chair with noticeably diminished enthusiasm.
Ferrus walked in, his gaze falling immediately on the cutlery — the metallic sheen of the knives and forks, the finish along the edges of the plates, the crystal quality of the wine glasses.
He picked up a dining knife and gave the blade a light flick with his finger, listening to the ring it produced.
"Fine craftsmanship."
He said it as a genuine compliment.
He could tell these had been made by Perturabo's own hands — and the skill behind them was exceptional.
"Thank you."
A faint smile crossed Ferrus's cold face. He sat down.
Dorn did not exchange words with Perturabo. He looked at him once, then began examining the structure of the hall. Approximately ten seconds later, he gave a single nod. The load-bearing walls had a safety coefficient of 2.3 built in.
Acceptable. He walked directly to his seat.
Guilliman entered, Sanguinius behind him. The Lord of Macragge paused at the edge of the long table and ran his fingers lightly along the leather upholstery of the chairback.
"Quality workmanship."
He said.
"But you should add a lumbar support point here. Human ergonomic data indicates that banquets typically last over three hours, and sixty-seven percent of people unconsciously adjust their sitting posture after two."
The remark left a brief, collective silence in its wake.
Perturabo hadn't expected it. Guilliman was always that way — reliably unexpected.
"I'll note that. Thank you for the suggestion."
Perturabo didn't particularly enjoy the feeling, but Guilliman possessed a persuasiveness that was difficult to resist. In the way he spoke, he seemed to have inherited some of the Emperor's ability to make people unconsciously inclined to believe him.
Sanguinius stepped forward and extended his hand. Perturabo took it, and it felt like grasping something warm and luminous.
"Thank you for the hospitality."
The Angel said.
"The defensive architecture of this palace is impressive. I observed it at length before we landed, and found no blind spots whatsoever. You accounted for both aerial assault and ground incursion simultaneously, didn't you?"
"You could see that?"
Perturabo was mildly surprised.
"Fortress architecture was a required course on Baal."
Sanguinius said with a smile.
"Though my people tend to reinforce their walls with faith, while you use mathematics and physics. Both have their merits."
When Magnus approached, his gaze did not settle on Perturabo at all. It went directly to the depths of the hall — the concealed arrays of computing machinery, the logic engine terminals, the steel bulwarks that his psychic senses could not penetrate.
"Your city is... quiet," he said, a faint complexity in his voice. "No psychic resonance. I can't hear anything."
"Intentional. Don't read into it. Please take your seat."
Magnus's mood was already somewhat low. Under other circumstances, the artwork he had passed in the palace would have drawn him to linger and study — but he had no such inclination now.
He found himself instinctively worried about the brother standing before him.
Fulgrim was last to enter, timing it perfectly. In his pursuit of perfection, he was meticulous to the point of compulsion in everything he did.
This made his current behavior look almost pathological to outside eyes, but no one would say anything critical of a Primarch's habits. The Emperor and Malcador certainly paid no attention to such minor things.
Ferrus had noticed first, but as both a brother and Fulgrim's closest friend, he simply turned a blind eye — Fulgrim wanted to pursue perfection, and so be it.
Guilliman and Horus had noticed too. But what of it? Did it matter?
Horus had his own peculiarities, let alone Fulgrim. This was hardly worth remarking on.
Guilliman, for his part, felt he and Fulgrim hadn't grown familiar enough with each other for him to point out each other's shortcomings.
Fulgrim's deep purple power armor was covered in lavish golden decoration and set with purple gemstones, its lines so fluid that the whole thing resembled an extravagantly luxurious yet impeccably refined formal gown as much as it did a suit of armor.
This is a desecration of power armor.
That had been Perturabo's first thought the moment he laid eyes on it.
And Fulgrim's affected entrance only made him feel worse.
"My dear brother."
Fulgrim's voice was like velvet gliding across silk.
"Your taste... surprises me."
"What do you mean by that?"
Not only Perturabo — even the Emperor and the others frowned slightly.
"I mean this precision within simplicity."
Fulgrim extended one finger and drew it gently along the edge of the tablecloth.
"A perfect drape. Proportional folds. There is a kind of symmetric aesthetic here that I find genuinely admirable."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"But there is still room for improvement. If you were willing, I could make this space far more beautiful and elevated in visual terms — and considerably more striking in impact as well."
"I decline."
Perturabo's cold words shattered some of Fulgrim's vision, leaving him crestfallen.
Calliphone and Andros sat at the two far ends of the table. Being seated among these demigods left them feeling as though they were sitting on pins and needles — the sense of something pressing against their backs was deeply uncomfortable.
Their eyes moved across the assembled Primarchs. Each of them carried far more gravity and majesty than any of the chess pieces that Perturabo had made — especially the golden giant seated at the center head of the table.
Calliphone and Andros finally understood why Perturabo had always said that his chess pieces weren't quite perfect. No cold, inanimate piece could convey this kind of presence.
The banquet began without announcement or fanfare. The mortal attendants began carrying food and drink out to the demigods.
Horus was speaking quietly with the Lion beside him, the First Returned wearing a warm smile while the Lion's expression maintained its characteristic detached vigilance.
Leman Russ had already opened the metal flask. The powerful smell of the liquor inside spread immediately through the hall — Calliphone caught it even from her seat at the far end of the U-shaped table.
Fenrisian mead had a sharp and pungent character. Those who had tasted it in the past tended to have less-than-fond memories of the experience. A flicker of distaste crossed the Emperor's eyes, but he picked up the red crystal wine glass and drained whatever was in it.
"Now that's what a drink should taste like!"
Then Russ shoved Ferrus beside him with a grin.
"Brother, have a pull — I promise you won't be disappointed."
Ferrus's iron hand reflected the cold light of the hall as he declined.
"No thank you. Alcohol affects my neural response. It makes me slow."
"Boring."
Russ clicked his tongue, then aimed the flask at Perturabo.
"I don't drink either."
Perturabo shook his head and declined in kind.
Undeterred, Russ turned to Guilliman.
"Thank you, brother, but I think Olympia's own wine is more than sufficient for tonight. If the opportunity arises in the future, I'll bring you something from Macragge's cellars when I visit Fenris."
Guilliman declined with a smile.
Fulgrim caught the scent of the Fenrisian mead and wrinkled his nose with unconcealed distaste.
"Dear brother, your mead puts me in mind of the slaves we encountered on a world the Third Legion conquered some time ago. The smell that came off them after the burning was roughly comparable."
"Tch. Everyone's so fussy."
Russ was in no mood to hide his displeasure at having his generosity so thoroughly rebuffed. He picked up the flask and drained what remained of the mead himself.
The starters were brought out — locally roasted vegetables from Olympia paired with a mountain fish variety of excellent flavor. Perturabo had specifically requested native Olympian ingredients as a gesture of welcome to his brothers.
Guilliman was using his knife and fork to methodically separate every single bone from his fish, stacking them in a neat row along the edge of his plate.
Russ picked up his fish fillet directly with his hand, tore off half and threw it into his mouth, crunching straight through the bones. Across the table, Horus's brow contracted ever so slightly, but he said nothing.
Sanguinius ate with a grace that resembled a ritual. He noticed the eyes of the mortal servant who brought the dishes, and looked up with a gentle, sincere smile.
The maid's face flushed with a sudden, involuntary color. She looked down and walked quickly out of the hall.
Vulkan's frame was imposing, but the way he ate was anything but savage — measured, even a little slow and deliberate.
Ferrus and Perturabo began their first conversation, on the subject of thermal treatment processes for metals.
They argued for ten minutes. Ferrus held that in the forging of power armor, segmented quenching should be used to ensure differential toughness across different components. Perturabo insisted that full-body quenching followed by localized tempering was the more scientifically sound approach.
Neither convinced the other, but both men's eyes had lit up — which gave Fulgrim an uncomfortable sinking feeling, the hand holding his red crystal glass of Olympian wine going slightly rigid.
"When the banquet is over, I want to see your forge," Ferrus said.
"Agreed," Perturabo answered without hesitation.
"But I want to hear the story behind those iron hands of yours."
Ferrus paused, then smiled.
"Deal."
The force with which Fulgrim was cutting into his meat had, without his noticing, increased by a measurable degree.
Dorn joined their discussion, the topic shifting to standard thickness for fortress walls.
Dorn held that against an Ork assault, the primary city wall should be forty meters thick. Perturabo insisted forty-two was the optimal figure.
Neither would give ground.
"Forty-two meters absorbs one additional impact without requiring structural repair. That is what the materials science calculation shows."
Perturabo said.
"I will run the calculations again myself."
Dorn said, after a brief silence.
Guilliman attempted to introduce the difficulty of logistics as a factor in the argument, which triggered an entirely new debate about the relationship between supply line length and wall thickness.
Vulkan listened from the sideline, occasionally offering a comment about the properties of forged materials.
Horus watched, and the smile on his face became genuinely warm. This was what he wanted — brothers at ease with one another, working together toward humanity's future.
The Lion's gaze never left Perturabo. The Lion's instincts told him steadily that there was something about this brother — something he could not fully understand, something that made every instinct in him stay alert.
The main course arrived — cuts from one of Olympia's great beasts, accompanied by various garnishes and a rich, dark sauce.
"Welcome home, Perturabo. My Fourth Son."
The Emperor raised his glass. Every person at the table raised theirs in kind.
"For all of you, my sons."
The Emperor's gaze moved across the assembled Primarchs.
"For the glory of the Imperium. For humanity's future."
The Emperor drained his glass. The Primarchs did the same.
The mortal attendants came to refill their glasses.
Fulgrim rose to his feet, his freshly filled glass in hand.
"To the host of this gathering — our brother, Perturabo. For this generous banquet you have prepared for us."
Everyone raised their glasses. Perturabo was about to respond when Fulgrim continued.
"Though I must say — the arrangement of the cutlery here puts me in mind of a Legion mess hall. But perhaps... that is precisely the aesthetic Perturabo was aiming for? A kind of disciplined simplicity?"
The corner of Fulgrim's mouth curved into a small smile. He meant no ill by it.
Perturabo set his glass down.
"I value efficiency and practicality. This palace — I care far more about its defensive function than wasting space on ornaments that look fine and serve nothing. That kind of thing is a shameful waste."
The smile froze on Fulgrim's face.
Horus and Guilliman both moved instinctively to smooth things over. Ferrus was about to say something in defense of his two friends. Vulkan and Dorn were still working out what had happened. Sanguinius was considering how best to offer comfort to both of them.
But the Emperor set down his knife and fork. The motion made almost no sound — yet everyone felt its weight.
"My son." The Emperor's voice was calm as still water. "You seem to be carrying a kind of anger toward our arrival. Is it that you have grievances with us — or is it that you have grievances with me?"
The atmosphere of the banquet grew suddenly heavy. The mortal attendants felt a storm gathering over them. Calliphone and Andros didn't dare breathe.
Before the Emperor, every person at the table felt the pressure bearing down.