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- 0 712 012 m31 -

The hololithe was a strained blue colour, like a cheap fluorescent light. Luna's projection, bristling with an array of missile turrets and cannons, carved its slow orbit around Terra while a hundred ships swarmed around it. The light side was being dismantled. It was expected that Horus would seize Luna soon, and Jarec had ordered every gun facing Terra to be relocated or torn down. He would deny the traitor that much. Beneath Luna, Terra was turning. High contrast icons showing little silhouettes of skulls picked out the areas Horus would target first. Manufactorums, communication arrays, fortresses. As Terra's rotation pushed each one out of view, Jarec imagined the real building reduced to ringing shards by volleys of missile fire.

Eight men, three of them Jarec's sons, were seated at the hololithe. The glowing tabletop cast harsh shadows on their faces, the kind that brought out the hollows of their eye-sockets and gave them pug noses. Malcador the Sigillite looked like a skeleton. Someone had painted over the fossilized bones with an extra-thin coat of skin. The collar on Rogal Dorn's fine armor shrouded his entire face in darkness, though Jarec could make out the spark of his eyes. In his hooded cloak, John Tzimiskes looked more monstrous than ever before.

Jarec's breath felt sharp, almost ragged. For weeks he'd been sinking into a dark pit, the kind that made it hurt to think and hurt to move. The kind that made it hurt to do anything besides rot. His jawline was shaded in with stubble. Deep purple bruises hung beneath his vacant eyes. People used to say his gaze was "powerful". The word that Jarec would use now would be "lingering" or maybe just "dead".

"My liege, it isn't too late to leave Terra," said Sanguinius. Even the harsh lighting and the cold dread that crept into the air couldn't make Sanguinius ugly. He was the most beautiful, the most perfect, the most faithful of Jarec's children. Sanguinius the Angel. "Ultramar has survived the Word Bearers. And in the Obscurus, we have the chain of Caliban, Medusa, Port Maw, and Vosotroya. Four of the safest, strongest worlds my liege could hope for."

Rogal Dorn answered for Jarec. "If we lose Terra, we've lost the war. If we leave for Macragge or Port Maw, it buys us another year, but it doesn't change the end. We have to stay at Terra, and force an outcome."

"We cannot lose Terra," said Fabricator-General Kane. He was only the Acting Fabricator-General in truth. The real one, Kelbor-Hal, had sided with Horus along with the real Adeptus Mechanicus. "If we have to abandon Terra, the Mechanicum-In-Exile will abandon us. They've accepted losing Mars, but Terra will be too much for them."

That was when Jarec spoke. "Adeptus Mechanicus."

"Pardon, my liege?" Kane asked.

"You're the Adeptus Mechanicus. Not the Mechanicum. You stopped being the Mechanicum when I conquered you."

"Yes, my liege. A thousand apologies, my liege." Kane's voice was quieter now. Jarec could make out the crackling metal edge of his voxcorder.

"Here's our plan," said Jarec. "Lion'El, return to Caliban, muster all of the Dark Angels, and bring them here. Whatever problems you've had with your Legion, now is the time to solve them. Malacador and Sanguinius, empty out all the banks, treasuries, and depositories, and relocate them to the lower levels of the Imperium Palace. Constantin, be ready to receive them. I don't want any of you being lazy. That means, don't use the Arbites. I don't trust them, especially with that much money. Basil, establish a secure channel with Ultramar. I don't care about your men's excuses, and I don't care how many Astropaths you have to burn through, just get it done already. Does anyone have any questions?"

"My liege, if you may permit me to ask - the treasuries of the Adeptus Mechanicus are surely exempt from your decrees?" Kane said. "The Priesthood would feel it would be a great insult if - "

"No one's exempt."

"Yes, my liege."

"Unless anyone has any further questions, I'd like to proceed." Jarec let himself slump back into his throne. "There is a traitor in this room. Now, when I say his name, his instinct is going to be to reach for his gun. Now, I want him to know that if he does that, he dies slowly. On the other hand, if he doesn't try to fight back, I will allow him the mercy of a quick death. I hope he was listening."

His sons were as much politicians as generals; none reacted. Basil looked back and forth in the exaggerated way where he moved with his entire head instead of just his eyes. Kane's face was made of duramite and adamantium. What little tanned flesh was left had lost all vestiges of life, atrophied by disuse and scarred by Martian radiation. There was no reaction from him either. Malcador shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Grand Master of Assassins, John Tzimisikies. I am sorry for the both of us."

John sucked in a breath through his teeth. His hands, flat on the tabletop and casting shadows on the hololithe, balled into fists. To his credit, he didn't reach for a weapon. "Is this some kind of fethed-up joke?" he said, sounding distant and choked off. "It's not funny. If it's a joke, I mean. Jarec - "

Rogal Dorne cut him off. "You will address our liege as the God Emperor of Mankind. He has ascended beyond mortal names."

Swelling with cold fury, John met Rogal's gaze and didn't flinch. Distaste gave his voice its old edge. "I never liked you. We both know that you wouldn't have a damn thing if Jarec didn't see his reflection in your fethed up face." The Grand Master of Assassins turned to Jarec. "I've known you longer than all the upjumped gaks at this table, except maybe Malcador, and he can vouch for me. Everyone here knows I'm as loyal as they come."

A million insults came to mind and though it took all his strength, Jarec pushed them aside. "Fabricator-General Kane, I understand you have a ceremonial pistol. Does it work?"

"Yes, my liege."

"Kane, kill this traitor."

"I don't want this ratfuck to do it, Jarec." John threw back his hood. "I want you to do it yourself. I want you to look me in the eye and do it yourself."

Kane's pistol had none of the blocky angles and unrefined steel of Imperial manufacturing. Instead of a dull metal grey, it was silver-blue with a golden grip. The perfect weapon for a pampered techpriest. Kane took his time in aiming, his right arm's exoskeleton steadying his grip. Gears clicked beneath the metal plating.

"Do you disagree with my orders, Kane? This is the traitor's justice. Do you object to it?"

John tried to speak over him. "Jarec, I want you to do it yourself. You hear me? If I really deserve it, do it yourself! If you really think I'd ever fething turn on you, then pull the trigger yourself!"

The room flashed white. What should've been a head turned to a thin red mist cut through by stringy bits of gore and skull shards. Cool blood speckled Jared's face. He was the veteran of a hundred wars, but it took Jarec a moment to overcome the ringing in his ears and the spots in his eyes all the same. John slumped onto the hololithe. Blood spread from the mangled remnants of his head, blotting out the projection once and for all. The table's light went from a thin blue to a thinner red.

Smoke rose from Kane's pistol. The techpriest put the weapon back beneath his robes.

"Dismissed," said Jarec.



- 0 349 516 m30 -

The sun was low in the morning sky. Every tiny pebble and dried-out shrub cast a long shadow over the wasted badlands. Just opening the window a crack, Tybalt felt like his skin would start peeling and blistering. Air never should've felt that crisp. It was hot, dry, and tingling with the slow burn of radiation.

"I'm bored," said Jeslyn, putting on a freshcoat of lipstick.

"Mal, how much longer?" Tybalt called, raising his voice over the grav-engine's low thrum.

Malcador looked back over his shoulder, away from his driving. "Three more hours at least. Probably more. You need me to stop?"

"No. Keep going."

"I said, I'm bored." Jeslyn moved onto her eyeshadow. As far as Tybalt could tell, she was the only woman who could put her makeup on in a bumpy, stilted grav-car and still end up looking perfect. "Tybalt, you listening?"

"Yeah, I'm listening, but what do you expect me to say? You're bored. Okay."

"Well, maybe if I'm bored, you should do something to keep me interested." She undid her safety-harness and leaned in towards Tybalt. "I've got a few ideas."

"There's not nearly enough room. I don't wanna be banging my head on the ceiling."

She put her hand on his thigh. "I've got more than enough room to... well... go down."

"Go down?" Jarec opened up a compartment in the door, retrieving a cigar.

"You know... give head."

"Are you fething crazy? First bump we hit, you'd bite my dick off. Read a book or something." Jarec lit up the cigar. "Give head now. Completely insane."

"Sorry!" Jeslynn started rummaging through her suitcase. "Why do you have to be so rude about it? It was just an idea."

"When we get there, call me Jarec, not Tybalt. When we're around John, my name is Jarec."

"What is that, some kind of codename or something?"

Settling back into his seat, Jarec took a long whiff of his cigar. "Sure. Hey, Jes - maybe we could take a break from talking?"



John Tzimisikies looked the same as he always did. He had a healthy tan now, and he wore loose white robes instead of leather and steel armor, but the essentials were still there. His lips were curling just a bit, stuck at the edge of a smug grin. Somehow, even in the badlands, his hair was still cropped and clean. Underneath those humble white robes, Jarec caught a glimpse of his old silver chain.

"John, what the hell are you doing out here?

Behind John was something that was almost a home - a heap of dry cracked mud in the rough shape of a square. It was the same colour as the badlands. Instead of a door, it had a dusty blanket over a hole carved into the side. The wind picked up just a bit, nearly tearing the blanket free.

"I'm living," said John. "Nice grav-car. Who'd you steal it from?"

"I bought it."

"I know that I might not have the best reputation, but I'm not that stupid. So, what brings you out to paradise?"

"First of all," said Jarec, "the Robitri Brothers are dead. One choked on his own vomit in a room full of cheap hookers. The other got shot. You're free to come home. Now, the even better news, is that I have a job offer for you."

John let out a lingering breath. "No smalltalk with you, huh?"

"What do you say John?"

He pulled open the blanket of his hut. "Let's talk inside."



"His name is Marics Divad. You might've heard of him, he was a relative of Jerreld, and he also ran with the Sliverskins for awhile. Anyways, Marics is the Lord of Hy Brasil, and that's not an empty title. You wouldn't believe the kind of operation he's running. All the warlords and chieftains and gang bosses - whatever they are - either they work for him now, or they're gone," Jarec said. "Now, Marics needs to collect tithes to pay his army. Except, he doesn't want to depend on some tithe-collection agency. He doesn't want to have just one group controlling all the money, because then they'll be the Lord of Hy Brasil, not him. He doesn't want to have to answer to grubby little bureaucrats and tax collectors. So he outsources it."

"He outsources it," said John. "Okay. What does that mean?"

"Basically, he lets people pay for a license to "collect tithes" in an area which means steal and murder in that area. These people pay a monthly fee for the license, and in-return they get to keep all the tithes they collect for themselves. Now, everyone makes a profit. Marics is getting paid by these tithe collector guys, without giving them any money or doing any work in return. The tithe collectors, they're always stealing more than Marics is charging them, so they're making a profit too. Everyone wins. Actually, now, I'm a tithe collector. We're called, 'contractors'. And that's why I'm here. I need an enforcer, a loyal, skilled enforcer, and who better than the legendary John Tzimisikies?"

"How did you pay for it? Your license, I mean?"

"Its easy to forget just how long you've been gone." Jarec grinned. "You know the warlords and chieftains and gang bosses I mentioned earlier? Well, I was one of them. Around the time Marics was mopping things up, I'd carved out a nice spot for myself in the Zenuelan oil fields. Four rigs in my turf, three of them producing round the clock."

"This is... too much," said John. "You have to understand, I still think of you as the fethup who snorted a quarter kilo of coke and tried to cover it up with salt. And then you come out here with this fancy car and tell me that everything I ever knew was wrong and now I'm gonna be some rich enforcer or whatever for some 'contractor'. It's... it's definitely an adjustment."

"You still haven't answered me. Look, I spent seven hours coming out here, you don't get to say no. The operation is already big, there's already a very nice guaranteed spot for you, and we're growing all the time. I'm very interested in expanding; I don't wanna get stuck in the trap of just thinking about my corner of Hy Brasil. And if we're gonna expand like I'm hoping, we're gonna need some guys with aggression. Starting with you."

"Alright. I'm in." John stood up. "Oh yeah - is Malcador dead yet? I couldn't stand that feth."



- 0 712 012 m31 -

The men filed outside of the war room, heads down. Rogal Dorne massaged his temples. While the rest marched on, Sanguinius took an apprehensive glance back at John. Only Malcador didn't seem surprised; the rest had all considered John beyond reproach.

"My liege," said Lion'El. "May I speak with you alone?"

He was the first of Jarec's sons. Only Lion'El had worn his full armor to the meeting; even Rogal Dorn had taken off his helmet. The armor-plating was a polished forest-green, so dark that up close it turned to black, trimmed with bands of gold and studded with dull iron rivets. His helmet was crowned with two slender horns whiter than marble. Instead of a face, it just had a slit visor. To complete the image of a cruel and foreboding man, Lion'El had thrown a lion's pelt over his huge, broad shoulders.

Lion'El always smirked underneath his helmet, like he had his own private joke that no one else was privy to. Jarec had never suspected that Horus would betray him. He couldn't say the same for Lion'El. Something about the self-proclaimed Dark Angel put him on edge.

"Constantin," Jarec said. Constantin Valdor was the Captain-General of the Custodes, a man of loyalty and skill beyond reproach. "Stay here with Lion'El and I."

"My liege, you trust me that little?" Lion'El sighed, though his helmet's voxcorder made the noise sound closer to an engine's growl. "Since we're alone, do I still have to call you 'my liege'?"

"No."

"That's good. You mind if I call you Jarec? Like John did?" Jarec's silence said more than any words could. "Fine, I'll call you father. We can agree on that. Father, I have poor news. I wasn't sure if the men in that room could be trusted with it. In fact, I'm not sure that Constantin can be trusted with it. Are you sure we should keep him here? No insult intended, Constantin."

"Constantin stays."

"Fine. The good news is that Alpharius lost at Yarant. He can't delay the Wolves anymore. Russ says he's heading here as fast as he can with his whole Legion behind him. Assuming he arrives before Horus mounts our heads on the palace gates, that's very good for us. The bad news is that Reboute is hedging his bets. We can't expect any support from him or his Ultramarines."

Jarec's breath caught in his chest. "How do you know this?"

"Reboute might as well have told me. Also, your problems with establishing a secure channel - it's not Basil's fault. There's been a secure channel for weeks. Reboute's just been ignoring it. The only reason he spoke with me was because he thought I was hedging my bets too."

The world started to shift beneath Jarec's feet. If he misstepped, the floor might slip out beneath him. He gripped the armrests of his fine throne, taking his time in sitting down. "This is just a setback."

"Absolutely."

"Lion'El, tell Basil to deliver this message; Reboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Fourteenth Legion - "

"It's the Thirteenth Legion, father. The Death Guard are the fourteenth."

"Yes. Thank you." Jarec swallowed. "Reboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, your God Emperor formally orders you to report to Terra. Failure to comply will be interpreted as treason. Failure to respond will be interpreted as treason."

"I'll tell Basil to send it. If you have no other commands, I'll be leaving."

That night, for the first time in a great while, Jarec tried to get enough sleep.

He was tired enough. Except, he couldn't get settled in his bed, and even if he could've he probably wouldn't have slept anyways. After what felt like a few hours, he gave up. Instead of sleeping, he walked his Palace.

Every surface in the Imperial Palace was made up of tiles of polished granite, running from a light tan to a dull grey, cut through by black veins of iron ore. It had been inspired by a monastery he visited a long time, ago. Lots of hard angles and great cavernous spaces. His own footsteps could echo done the lengths of his great halls for years. It gave the building a cold, sterile feel. Jarec supposed that the monastery had been alive with monks; all he had were brooding Custodes.

He found a hallway he'd never gone down before, and made a point of going through it. Inside, there was a whole guest suite. Rooms all made of the same granite, with luxury beds walled in by fine silk curtains. Each one had about the warmth and hospitality of a scalpel. Each bathroom had an imitation of a personal touch; a white bar of soap with black speckles that gave it the light abrasive edge it needed, resting inside a seashell beside the golden faucet. The shell faded from grey to pink as it curved. Not a barnacle or mussel insight. Jarec wondered whether or not it was actually real.

All the money that he'd wasted on these pet projects could've made a difference. All the statues and gargoyles, all the palaces and manses, they had to add up to something. How many soldiers could he buy with each one? Not that Terran real estate was worth much anymore. The whole city was alive with the whirring of drills and the pounding of machinery, trying to get ready for Horus's upcoming bombing campaign. Horus aimed to keep Terra mostly intact. Mostly. He wouldn't let a few causalities get in his way. After all, he was Jarec's son.

Horus had once asked for his name, so Jarec had told him Osiris. It was about as real as any of his other names. To Malcador, he was Tybalt. To John, he was Jarec. To Rogal, he was Thane. Regardless of who he was speaking to, he was from the same town. The God Emperor of Mankind was a kindred soul with every man he met.

If he could just talk to Horus...

There was no point in dwelling on that. Jaghatai Khan was the greater concern at the moment. Of his all sons, he had the least connection to Jaghatai. The Primarch of the White Scars was just a boy, playing at war with his Scout Cycles. His only respect was reserved for displays of mindless bravado. For years Horus had groomed him as a Lieutenant, yet here he stood at Terra. Just thinking about it made Jarec's stomach knot up. He couldn't afford to have Jaghatai turn on him, but he couldn't afford to get rid of Jaghatai either. The White Scars might've been the strongest force at his disposal save the Imperial Fists. There was no point in throwing them away.

He made his way back to his room. On the comm. network, he plugged in the White Scars' ID. "General Jaghatai Khan, Primarch of the White Scars, this is the God Emperor of Mankind. Report to the Imperial Palace when available. That is all."

- 0 349 516 m30 -

"Who wants to live forever?" said Eisenheimer, handing Tybalt the cherry-red pill. "If you don't die, it means you can't retire. Ever."

The human body thought along similar lines. Cell lifespans were intentionally limited, despite the cost to the body, to prevent cancer. A human body was 37 million cells and a long enough timeline every single one of those cells would either die or manage to kill its human first. So, the body had to walk a thin line, trying to preserve its cells without farming cancer. The experts that Tybalt talked to - doctors, surgeons, biologists, priests - most of them thought that the human body had already found that perfect balance. Except, that perfect balance meant dying at one hundred and fifteen.

Tybalt, with his toned bronze skin and hard-plate abs, could do better.

Eisenheimer agreed that the body was out of balance. Through the enzyme telomerase, Tybalt forced the cells to live beyond what was humanly possible. Supplementing it with p53 helped to streamline the cell cycle, minimizing the risk of cancer. Popping a hundred pills a day he pushed his body into balance. Fat-specific disruption of the insulin receptor gene kept him lean. SkQ stopped his mitochondria from abusing themselves. Every day he exercised harder, sparring against endless opponents, sprinting countless laps around his villa, until his blood was hissing and burning in his veins.

Then came the cancer.

It was adenocarcinoma; rogue cells in the glandular tissue of his stomach. While he was going about his life, building his empire in Hy Brasil, a conspiracy was forming from within his body to murder him. The cancer was made up of the same DNA as him. Who was to say it didn't share a part of his mind or his soul? At first, Tybalt just felt full all the time. When he ate too much, there was a wavering feeling at the edge of nausea. Beyond that, nothing. It had started around the time he began with SkQ, so he had just blamed it on that. For at least six months, he'd ignored it. After there was blood in his gak twice, he decided to have it checked.

That morning, he woke up to the sound of Jeslynn bitching. "I didn't like what you said last night."

In his canopy bed, Tybalt was sprawled in a mess of tangled and overturned blankets, face pressed into a down feather pillow. He blinked his eyes open. Mumbling something to Jeslynn, he rolled over in bed, dragging the blankets along with him. Jeslynn was lying flat on her backs, hands crossed in her lap, staring at the ceiling.

"I said, I didn't like what you said last night."

"What did I say?" Tybalt pulled the covers tighter around himself.

"You kept interrupting me and when I tried to talk to you about it, you said that it didn't matter what I had to say because I was a woman."

His stomach felt like it was rising. The pressure at the back of his throat didn't help. Underneath him, the bed was shifting back and forth, like a ship caught in strong waves. "Can we talk about this later?"

"Its noon. You've had enough time to sleep off your hangover, if that's what you mean."

"I just woke up, and first thing you do is ambush me with this gak. I must've been drunk. Or you must've misremembered it. Can we talk about this later?"

"I must've misremembered it?" Jeslynn sat up. "I must've misremembered it? Is that what happened? Because I'm a stupid, hysterical woman?"

"I didn't say that."

"You thought it."

"If you're trying to convince me that you're not a stupid, hysterical woman, it's not working." Yawning, Tybalt dragged himself out of bed, taking most of the covers with him. "I need to use the washroom."

There were two cherry-red pills of telomerase that he had to take. Then came the p53. No matter how much water he used to shallow it, the p53 still left him feeling like there was a dry lump at the back of his throat. Close on its heels came the FIRKO. Instead of the usual pill shape, they were flat chalky circles. Last was the SkQ. It came in a gelatin capsule, the only way to make to make the bitter powder edible. The human body was a just a string of chemical reactions. Tybalt say no reason to not take a direct hand in how they played out.

After that part of his routine, he sat down to take a gak. It didn't hurt. That was strange, considering the little gout of blood that came out with it. He would have to see Eisenheimer about that.

Being one of Maric's contractors was a lucrative business, and Tybalt was no exception. He had bought out the top three floors of the Nerill Building to form his own private penthouse. There were rooms for guards and servants, but no mistresses. Jeslynn wouldn't allow it. From his 285th floor, Tybalt could take in all of Caracos. He was the top of a cluster of a needle-thin towers that sloped down to concrete factorums and apartments, then great swathes of slums, and finally a rusted fringe of shanty towns that marked the city's end. After that, there was nothing but the green-brown rows of coca farms.

Malcador was downstairs waiting for him. "They wouldn't let me wake you up," said Mal, gesturing to the hulking guards behind him.

"Good. Mal, what do you think of the view?"

"It's nice. Look, there was a report of a smuggling op down at Baruma, so I sent a few guys down there to take care of it. They were a half mile off the coast when a missile launcher took the whole crew out."

He rubbed his eyes. "Those aren't cheap."

"They aren't."

In Hy Brasil, most people were very poor, and Tybalt's portion was no exception. Taxing the very poor proved to be a difficult matter. The contractor before Tybalt had wasted untold millions by leaving the impoverished coca farmers. Collectively, the coca industry was rich. Individual coca farmers, however, owned nothing but the clothes on their backs and struggled to support their families while paying off their loans. Taxing the million dollar industry was difficult was difficult when its workers were living from day to day. The solution was to control the borders. Anyone trying to sell coca outside of Tybalt's domain had to sell it to Tybalt's border guards, who would then resell at the higher market price outside Hy Brasil. So long as he kept a tight grip on the borders, the farmers had no choice. Either they could sell it to Tybalt to make a small profit, or sell it to no one to make no profit.

The natural side effect of this was a smuggling boom.

Tybalt turned to face his guards. "Next time, Mal is allowed to wake me up. He's allowed to take a gak on my bed and feth my wife if he wants. The next time Mal comes in here with something important, he can burn the whole building down, and you just stand back and let him. I appreciate that you let me sleep in, I really do, but some things are more important. As a matter of fact, most things are more important. Now, Mal. Radio Taranis at Baruma. Tell him to get his men ready, but not to do anything until we get there. Also, tell Arun to get his men together and be ready for my arrival. Talk to John too. Tell him to get his Boys down to Baruma, make contact with Taranis, and then wait for us."



- 0 712 012 m31 -

Jaghatai Khan was a man who, if nothing else, stood tall.

He wore slender golden armor. Every curving and arching surface ended in a sharp point, whether it was one of his spiked shoulder pauldrons or his ridged greaves. There were none of the rigid angles of Khabul's armor. Instead, it all flowed together into one great mass of thorns. Held by a chain at his neck, there was a cape of rich crimson silk, lined with spotted cragcat fur. His bald, scarred head was topped with a great plume of red hair.

As soon as he saw Khabul, he dropped to one knee. "My God Emperor," he said, "whatever you ask of me, it is done."

Khabul gripped him by the shoulders and lifted him to his feet. "My son, you are the great Jaghatai Khan; you do not kneel."

That brought a smile to Jaghatai's face. His dried white warpaint was cracked at the edge of his lips and at his wrinkles. "You are too kind."

"I am afraid not. You've heard about the council I held, that your brothers Lion'El, Sanguinius, and Rogal attended?"

"Yes, my liege."

Sighing, Khabul said, "I did not invite you because your work was more important. That was unfair to you. I wish I had. Your brothers exploited your absence. The rumors they told about you... that you're a traitor, or that your own Legion would not follow you in a crisis. One of them, I will not name him, claimed that he could rule your own Legion better than you could, and that your men held no particular loyalty to you. He said you were disposable to our cause... They only dared speak this way because you were gone, unable to defend yourself against their accusations. At the next council, I will make sure it is scheduled so that you may attend."

"My liege, who spoke those rumors?" His voice was sharp but controlled, like a whipcrack.

"It would be a great cruelty to name him, Jaghatai. Yes, he has wronged you, but he does not deserve to die."

"He is spreading lies, my liege. He is committing treachery."

"I assure you, I will keep a close watch on him." Khabul clasped Jaghatai's shoulder. "These are dark times. I am forced to keep a close watch on all my sons, poised to strike before they can betray me. The mistakes I committed with Horus will not happen again. There are informants within all the Legions now, waiting for any sign of disloyalty."

Jaghatai fell silent.

"I am sorry to have spent even a fraction of your valuable time, my son. After all, you are the most skilled and most loyal man I have left to me. Go now. Keep a close watch on those around you though - treachery is everywhere."