By the standards of a Nostraman, Yago Sevatarion should flee right now.
In truth, he should have done so long ago. He had escaped the Dark Angels' battle barge during transit and crash-landed on this planet. He knew full well those obsidian-clad, paranoid cousins of his would never let it slide. He should have stolen away the moment his wounds healed enough.
But he hadn't. He stayed. He wasted ten Terran years on this barren agri-world, even deluding himself into thinking his pursuers had either been lost to the warp's turbulence, missed his landing point, or simply given up.
He knew how the universe worked. He had tasted probability's malice enough times to recognize that absurd assumption as pure self-deception. Over the past decade, he had repeatedly told himself to leave—and repeatedly, for one reason or another, abandoned the idea.
Until now, when fate bared its bloody maw at him once more.
As a low-yield agri-world, Jestael had little nightlife to speak of. Even during the global harvest celebrations, the freight station's camp fell into silence soon after the sun dipped below the horizon. Finally, Sevatar could think undisturbed in the quiet dark.
The darkness comforted him—it was his domain. Not just because he was a son of Nostramo, born in the black, but because it was a power his Primarch had bestowed upon him through gene-craft (whether his father liked it or not). The Emperor's bio-alchemy had also gifted him a physiology that required little sleep, so he often used these extra hours of night to think.
He thought about whether he should run.
The Nostraman part of him screamed yes, but other parts—parts he couldn't even define—shouted no. His foresight, another dubious inheritance from his gene-father, never failed him. If he left now, he could evade the Ravenwing squad hunting him.
If he fled, he would live. But he also knew those cousins of his, paranoid to the point of neurosis over "secrets," would never let it rest. They would tear this planet apart, torture every suspect, and erase all traces of their search with bolters, meltas, even torpedoes—before resuming their endless pursuit.
He could survive. But what of the people who had accepted him without question, who believed his illogical lies, who had lived alongside him for ten years?
Sevatar had never expected much intelligence from agri-world "commoners," but these people were even more foolish than he'd imagined. Had he ever harbored even a fraction of malice, everyone in District Four would have died a decade ago from sheer, stupid kindness.
But he hadn't. And now, ten years later, he found he couldn't abandon them to their fate.
Yago Sevatarion, you've grown weak, he mocked himself in the dark. Guess what? You're second-guessing yourself just like Shen.
He had pondered this for years—his gene-father, his brutal philosophy and half-spoken teachings, his own experiences… justice. Strangely, all those fragmented thoughts converged tonight, at this life-or-death juncture, pointing him to an answer:
Yago Sevatarion cared nothing for honor, nor for being called a coward. But this time, he would stay. He would face a battle he could not win, embrace his blood-soaked fate.
He had no weapons, no power armor, not even his peak condition after years without the elements an Astartes needed—but those Dark Angels had better not think—
—A massive impact shattered Sevatar's grand resolve, hurling him off the freight station's roof and into gravity's embrace.
In those brief seconds of freefall, Sevatar's mind raced: Who attacked? How did they find me so precisely? Why didn't my foresight warn me? Why is this happening now, so much sooner than I foresaw?
He got no answers, but the muscle memory of the Eighth Legion's finest warrior kicked in. His body adjusted mid-air, ready to land and rise fighting—
—Until something heavy slammed into his back. He wasn't injured, but his landing posture was ruined. Sevatar hit the ground in an undignified sprawl, feeling almost flattened into one of Old Hank's spice cakes. The weight on his back didn't budge—instead, it pressed down relentlessly, making his rib plates scream.
He tried to speak, but every breath was crushed from his tri-lungs. All that escaped was a choked, wordless groan.
Then, a voice he hadn't heard in ten years whispered in his ear:
"Long time no see, Sev."
A ghost from the past—the gene-sire of the Eighth Legion, Yago Sevatarion's master and father—spoke with malicious cheer:
"Whatever you're thinking, you're coming with me now."
"Did you ask him what he wanted?"
In Storm's Edge's command center, Fujimaru Ritsuka held a steaming mug of mocha, tilting her head up to level a look at Konrad Curze. Behind her, a golden-armored giant—slightly shorter than the Primarch—stood like a silent backdrop. Sevatar lingered at the edge, wordless, meek as a quail.
Survival instincts prevailed. Knowing his gene-father, he was certain that if he so much as breathed wrong, Curze would literally ball him up like scrap paper.
Curze said nothing, but Ritsuka seemed to understand anyway. She sighed, set her coffee down, and spoke rapidly: "I knew not to expect much from your interpersonal skills after hearing you didn't even clear the Time Temple, but—even after realizing it's a glaring flaw, you just don't improve, do you?"
"I see no issue with my actions," Curze retorted. "Sev is my First Captain. I decide where he goes and what he does."
"Yes, Yago Sevatarion is your First Captain, your soldier, your son." Ritsuka's face twisted in exasperation. "But first and foremost, he's a person, not some object for you to haul around as you please. Even in a chain of command, you owe him basic respect."
"I've noticed something amusing," Curze deflected. "You showed no such 'basic respect' to the eighteen of my sons you captured earlier."
"I implore you to address the actual issue instead of derailing the conversation," Ritsuka said mournfully, picking up her coffee again. "Even if we ignore all else, you're an adult, Konrad. For my sake, please act like one."
Curze side-eyed her as she raised the cup to her lips. Calculating her sipping speed, he timed his next words perfectly:
"Considering you call yourself 'forever seventeen' because your body no longer ages, by that logic—based on physical age—I am currently six months old."*
He watched with satisfaction as Ritsuka choked on her coffee, coughing and scrambling for napkins to clean the mess. Smugly, he added: "Six months, seven days, twenty-three hours, fifteen minutes, and forty-seven seconds, Terran standard. I'm just a baby."
Sevatar's brain stopped.
Seeing his gene-father again already felt like a surreal dream, but everything after—the un-Imperial ship that had somehow parked behind the freight station unnoticed, the Custodian, his Primarch being scolded by a mortal girl—any one of these was an orbital bombardment to the senses. That his mind hadn't short-circuited until now was a testament to Astartes endurance.
"You are speaking to a Primarch. I advise you to measure your words."
"—And this is how you use a Primarch's memory and wisdom? Picking petty details to bicker over?"
"What else? Do we have some grand battle to plan?"
"Don't we?! We're trying to rebuild your Legion, and yet you keep sabotaging every step!"
"—Both of you, calm down. Remember why we're here."
The golden giant finally spoke, attempting to mediate before the command center devolved into chaos. Unsurprisingly, Curze wasn't having it.
"Quiet, Custodian. This doesn't concern you."
"I am not a Custodian." The emotionless monotone echoed from the golden helm. "I have reiterated this—"
"—But when you look like a Custodian, arm yourself like one, speak like one, and act like one, don't complain when people call you one."
The golden giant opened his mouth to protest further, but Ritsuka waved him off:
"Enough, Somnus. He's just trying to provoke anyone he can. Don't indulge him. And—thank you. I'm calm now."
Somnus nodded and resumed his backdrop role, as if entirely unruffled. Ritsuka turned back to Curze: "Let's return to the topic. You accuse me of double standards with Sevatarion and the other Night Lords. I admit it—but why shouldn't I? Is he the same as those who committed atrocities on a whim?"
She pressed sharply: "In all the years Yago Sevatarion served as a Night Lord—you know this better than I do, Konrad—think hard: In every act of brutality, every trigger pulled, every life taken—how much of that was his will? How much was because you demanded it?"
The words struck like thunder. Konrad Curze froze, his face dark, but he said nothing. He could have argued—but he knew Ritsuka would dismantle any defense.
"He loves you, Konrad. They all do." Ritsuka sighed. "I know it means nothing to you… I don't expect you to reciprocate. But at least respect that love. Don't treat them like objects."
"...I disagree," Curze muttered.
Ritsuka ignored him, gathering her cup and saucer before breezing toward the door: "It's a suggestion. The choice is yours."
"Ritsuka, you insufferable—!" Curze spun after her, furious. "You can't just drop 'the choice is yours' and— Where are you going?"
"Washing dishes, changing clothes, gearing up, heading out, sightseeing." She didn't even glance back, her tone casual as if listing a daily schedule. "Though we surfaced here for Sevatarion, you do recall he's not the only reason we came to this planet, right?"
With that, she left, abandoning the three men in the silent command center.
The Custodian (who wasn't one) never spoke unprompted, so Somnus remained statue-still. Curze glared at the corridor where Ritsuka had vanished, lost in thought. Sevatar, slowly recovering from mental overload, was the only one feeling the creeping awkwardness—but before he could break the silence, his gene-father spoke:
"...I don't understand." Curze's voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. "Should I choose? How do I choose right? I see nothing. How can I be sure?"
His gaze drifted back to Sevatar. He seemed to see something—or perhaps he was just lost in thought.
"Sev… what do you want to choose?" It sounded like a question—or a murmur in a dream. "Will you leave with us? Or stay on this world? If it's the latter, just follow her when she disembarks later. I won't stop you."
He paused, then added: "This isn't a threat or a test… It's just a choice. I don't know. But as she said, perhaps I should… try respecting yours."
Sevatar's barely-recovered brain fried again. Only sheer survival instinct kept him from screaming "Who are you and what have you done with my Primarch?!"
And even that instinct was hanging by a thread.