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Aboard the Pride of the Emperor, within the grand banquet hall of the Heliopolis.
The massive chamber, large enough to host thousands of revelers simultaneously, was bathed in the warm, golden glow of candlelight.
Dozens of chandeliers, crafted from crystals plundered during the Laeran campaign, hung from the vaulted ceiling, casting a soft, refracted luminescence into every corner.
The surrounding walls were draped in grand tapestries and paintings depicting the glorious victories of the Emperor's Children.
These exquisite masterworks chronicled the triumphant moments when Fulgrim led his sons to conquer world after world in the Emperor's name.
Fulgrim reclined upon the seat of honor.
His purple and gold ceremonial power armor gleamed with a magnificent luster under the candlelight, while his snow-white hair cascaded flawlessly down his back.
A single-edged curved sword hung at his waist.
The Blade of the Laer.
A faint, purplish-pink light pulsed from within its scabbard, beating with the steady rhythm of a living heart.
To his left sat Ferrus Manus.
The silver-grey Primarch of the Iron Hands sat rigidly in the primary guest seat, his arms of living metal resting casually on the armrests.
Their faces were a study in absolute contrast: one flawless as a masterfully sculpted work of art, the other as harsh and unyielding as a cast-iron monument.
"Lucius," Fulgrim began, his voice warm and dripping with charismatic charm, "bring out the finest Chemosian wine from my personal collection." He turned to Ferrus, his violet eyes brimming with mirth. "I intend to drink heavily with my dearest brother! After this, we will join forces and utterly eradicate those loathsome xenos! We will show the lords of Terra that only the Iron Hands and my Emperor's Children are truly perfect! The Warmaster should have been chosen from between you and me—that would have been the only correct path."
Standing behind Fulgrim, the bald-headed Lucius had just turned to fetch the vintage when he was interrupted.
"There is no need," Ferrus stated, his voice as cold and hard as iron, halting Lucius in his tracks. He looked at Fulgrim, his craggy face completely devoid of expression, speaking with the blunt directness characteristic of the Iron Hands. "I was the one who asked for your assistance this time, so naturally, I should provide the drink. Besides, I already brought some with me. I want you to taste a fine vintage I recently discovered. Gabriel."
Gabriel Santar, standing faithfully behind Ferrus, immediately slammed his right fist against his breastplate. The resounding clang of impacting metal echoed loudly through the banquet hall. "Yes, Father!"
He gently lowered several crates he had been carrying onto the floor and briskly popped open the lid of the topmost box.
The moment the seal broke, a rush of crisp, freezing air spilled out from within.
It was the distinct aura of heavily chilled, meticulously stored vodka—rendered all the sweeter by the intense cold.
Gabriel retrieved a crystal-clear glass bottle from the crate.
The bottle bore no ostentatious labels, sporting only a simple, unadorned wax seal around its neck.
Stamped into the seal was a golden crest—a dawn breaking through darkness, wreathed by stars, ears of wheat, and a mechanical cog.
Ninety-six percent alcohol by volume.
--
Gabriel stared at the bottle of vodka in his hands, his throat bobbing in an involuntary swallow.
He craved a sip. He craved it so damn much.
How long had it been since the 52nd Expeditionary Fleet last resupplied this glorious stuff after leaving Aurelian IV?
A mere twenty crates was all that remained for the entire fleet.
Usually, only the warriors who fought with the most exceptional valor during a campaign earned the right to enjoy a tiny shot of it afterward.
But there were far too many wolves and not enough meat!
Sure, being the commander of the Primarch's personal guard sounded prestigious, but generally, he only took the field when Ferrus himself deployed.
Those Company Captains and Legion Champions fought over the liquor distribution with more ferocity than they fought for battle honors. He simply couldn't compete with their sheer numbers!
It had been three whole years since his last taste. Most days, he was forced to just watch with agonizing envy.
And now, this bottle of crystal-clear perfection was resting right in his hands.
The lingering frost on the glass and that achingly familiar scent instantly revitalized his senses.
Taking a deep breath, Gabriel slowly twisted the cap.
His strength was controlled to absolute perfection.
The cybernetic enhancements of the Iron Hands granted him a sense of kinesthetic force far beyond that of a normal Astartes.
The stubborn metal cap yielded like an obedient pet in his grip, popping open with a crisp sound while leaving the delicate glass neck completely intact.
The instant the seal was broken...
A rich, overwhelmingly potent aroma of alcohol flooded the air.
This wasn't the delicate, refined scent of floral notes and fruity undertones typical of Chemosian wine.
It was a pure, blazing scent of raw spirits.
It aggressively assaulted the nostrils of everyone in the room, detonating like a localized fireball across their olfactory nerves.
--
Fulgrim's eyes lit up with sudden intrigue.
He inhaled deeply, letting the heady aroma wash through his lungs.
His flawless face broke into an even wider smile. "I should expect no less from you, Ferrus. For a vintage to earn your praise... this spectacular aroma alone justifies it."
Ferrus gave a curt nod, a ghost of a smile finally softening his hardened features. "Pour it."
Gabriel stepped forward with utmost care, filling the two crystal goblets resting before the Primarchs.
The pristine liquid cascaded from the bottle, rippling gently in the glasses and reflecting the golden candlelight of the banquet hall.
Standing behind Fulgrim, Saul Tarvitz felt his pupils contract the moment the scent hit him.
He knew this smell all too well.
That night, inside the command tent of the Tenth Company.
He and Vespasian had shared this exact same liquor with a man claiming to be Gabriel Santar, discussing things that still haunted their memories to this day.
That burning sensation scorching down the throat, the fire erupting in the chest, the profound warmth hidden within the freezing liquid... It was identical.
Tarvitz cast his gaze over the crowd, his eyes locking onto the silver-grey figure.
Gabriel Santar stood stoically behind Ferrus, his rugged face an unreadable mask of stone.
But Tarvitz knew the truth. That man had returned.
The very same man who had charged forward twice to stop their gene-father from taking up that accursed sword.
Tarvitz's fists slowly clenched at his sides.
He wanted to rush forward and demand answers from Gabriel Santar... Has our father truly changed? How can we save him?
But now was not the time to speak.
The two Primarchs were deep in conversation, surrounded by the Lord Commanders and Captains of the Emperor's Children.
He had no choice but to forcefully suppress the turbulent emotions churning within him and remain standing there in absolute silence.
--
Fulgrim raised his goblet, offering a toast to Ferrus across the table. "To us, brother."
Ferrus raised his own glass in turn. The two crystal goblets clinked together in the air with a crisp, clear chime.
Both Primarchs downed the liquid in a single, fluid motion.
The ninety-six percent spirit slid down their throats and into their stomachs, detonating into a blazing inferno within their chests.
The searing heat rapidly surged through their limbs and bones, forcing every pore on their bodies to snap open in an instant.
Fulgrim abruptly stood up.
He slammed the goblet down, his violet eyes flashing with an intense mixture of shock and sheer exhilaration.
His flawless face practically overflowed with a radiant grin. "Magnificent!" His voice rang out high and clear, dripping with undisguised admiration. "This is vastly superior to even the greatest Chemosian vintages! Ferrus, wherever did you find such an exquisite treasure?"
Ferrus lowered his own glass, the smirk at the corner of his mouth deepening just a fraction.
He didn't answer the question directly, simply stating in an even tone, "Once this war is won, I will gift you five crates."
Fulgrim burst into a booming laugh. "It's a deal!"
He settled back into his seat of honor, his right hand subconsciously coming to rest on the pommel of his sword.
The gesture was entirely casual, yet it caused Ferrus's brow to furrow ever so slightly.
He did not sense the familiar resonance of the Fireblade—the weapon he had forged with his own hands.
The masterpiece he had bled and sweated over at the anvil, pouring a staggering amount of his own soul into its creation.
The blade that stood as the ultimate testament to their brotherhood.
Ferrus's hardened gaze locked onto the weapon currently resting at Fulgrim's waist.
Right where the Fireblade should have hung, there now rested a weapon he had never seen before.
It was a single-edged curved sword, its blade roughly one point two meters long, possessing an eerie, almost unnatural sweeping beauty.
Three fist-sized gemstones were set into the scabbard, each one pulsing rhythmically like a living, beating heart.
Ferrus's frown deepened. He set his goblet aside and spoke, his voice taking on the cold, blunt edge typical of the Iron Hands. "Fulgrim, why have you changed your blade? Is the Fireblade I gifted you no longer sufficient? Is the balance off? Do you need me to throw it back into the forge and re-forge it for you?"
Hearing this, the smile on Fulgrim's face faltered for a fraction of a second.
But in the very next heartbeat, his perfect, radiant grin returned.
He gently caressed the hilt at his waist with his right hand, his tone as tender as a maestro introducing his most cherished masterpiece. "How could you even suggest such a thing, my dearest brother? Your Fireblade has accompanied me for a long time, and it remains my most treasured weapon. This sword, however, is a trophy from my latest perfect campaign. It is fabled to be the perfect blade, one capable of ending all wars. The xenos called it the Blade of the Laer. They dedicated six thousand, six hundred, and sixty-six years of their entire civilization just to worship it."
He looked up, meeting Ferrus's eyes as the smirk at the corner of his mouth deepened into something far more profound. "Therefore, I wish to use this blade to aid you. To achieve yet another perfect war. We shall scour every last xeno from the stars and secure a flawless victory for the supremacy of mankind. A victory the Imperium will engrave into its history, one that Terra itself will look upon in awe. We will let everyone know..." Fulgrim's voice echoed powerfully through the banquet hall, laced with an undeniable, feverish zeal. "...that only the bond between us brothers is truly perfect."
A fleeting, heavy silence descended upon the grand hall.
The Lord Commanders and Captains of the Emperor's Children fixed their gaze upon the exotic sword, their own eyes reflecting the exact same gleam of fanatical obsession.
Tarvitz lowered his head, allowing the shadows to hide his eyes completely.