The light inside the Throne Room seemed to dim under the horror unfolding on the screen.
The flames of Olympia still flickered in the hologram's afterglow, yet hotter than those flames were Calliphone's dying words and the slight tremor now running through Perturabo's iron hands.
There were no Warp-beast roars, no unnameable whispers of dark gods.
Only a man, a demigod, unable to face his own failure, throttled the one person in all the Galaxy who had truly loved him and dared speak honest truth—his own sister.
A deathly hush gripped the hall, broken only by the hum of life-support systems.
Roboute Guilliman rose slowly to his feet.
He stood there, face bloodless, the eyes that always shone with reason and wisdom now filled with disbelieving shock.
He looked at Perturabo as though gazing at some utter stranger, some monster.
'You have lost your mind, Perturabo…'
Guilliman's voice was soft, almost trembling, yet in the tomb-silent chamber it carried like a clarion.
'That was your birth-World. Those were the people who raised you.'
'Even had they rebelled, even had they cast out the governor, you should never have ordered them exterminated.'
'There are a thousand political and military ways to crush a revolt; genocide is never among them.'
Guilliman drew a slow breath, his gaze falling upon the woman's body lying on the screen.
For an instant he thought of Macragge, of Tarasha Euten, that mortal woman who now laboured over statecraft in Hera's Fortress and loved him like a mother.
A chill rising from the depths of his soul threatened to suffocate him.
'And… how could you treat your sister so?'
Pain beyond comprehension filled Guilliman's voice.
'She was trying to save you; she was speaking truth.'
'For those of us who stand so high, a kinswoman brave enough to speak truth is beyond price… and you snapped her neck?'
To Guilliman, who cherished normal family bonds and revered his foster-mother, Perturabo's deed lay far past any boundary he could grasp.
This was not mere cruelty; it was the utter extinction of humanity.
Under that barrage of disappointment and shock, Perturabo shrank into his chair, saying nothing.
His face was paper-white, lips clamped shut, fingers gouging the armrests until the knuckles blanched.
Vulkan sighed and stepped forward, regarding his brother with sorrow.
'Brother, you should never have done this.'
Vulkan's voice was low and hoarse, like embers after the fire has died.
'I heard it in your sister's words… once they loved you.'
'You were their hero, their liberator.'
'People do not rise in revolt without cause; they must have had their reasons.'
'Perhaps pain, perhaps despair.'
'A lord should listen to their suffering, not answer their pleas with shells.'
At that moment a cold, utterly toneless voice cut in.
'The reason is not complicated.'
Lion El'Jonson, Primarch of the Dark Angels, sat in shadow, arms folded across his chest.
His keen eyes swept the ruins on the screen like a scanner, dispensing his frigid strategic assessment.
'Their rebellion can only spring from a few causes.'
The Lion spoke icily: 'Either Word Bearers agitators were at work behind the scenes—that preacher clearly had a hand—or…'
He glanced at Perturabo.
'Perturabo's levies upon his home-World have reached their limit.'
'Resources exhausted, population decimated; the Planet has been bled dry.'
'Strategically, it is unsustainable. When pressure exceeds the breaking point, structure collapses.'
'Outcome was inevitable.'
Perturabo heeded none of his brothers.
Guilliman's shock, Vulkan's sorrow, the Lion's cold mockery—all reached him as though through thick glass.
He only stared, almost masochistically, at the portrait on the screen: that future self kneeling beside his sister's corpse, the remorse of that moment stabbing through the display like poisoned needles into his heart.
'No… it was never meant to be like this…'
Perturabo whispered within.
'They brought it upon themselves!'
Inside, the proud, obstinate voice shrieked, fighting to justify.
'I gave them everything! I dragged Olympia from barbarism into civilisation!'
'I brought them science, I built fortresses to keep the xenos at bay, I gave them safety they had never known!'
They have no idea what I've been through out there—how many battles I've fought in the mud just to keep them safe!
And now, just because I conscripted a few youths for service—just because I asked them to do their duty—they dare to rebel?
They even burned my statue?
But when his gaze swept across Guilliman's handsome, upright, and humane face again, the voice of self-justification inside him suddenly faltered.
He knew how well Guilliman had ruled Macragge.
Both were Primarchs, both were rulers.
Guilliman had brought prosperity to his homeworld without crushing his people.
He had won not only the war but also the hearts of his people.
'You are weak, Perturabo.'
His sister's words rang in his ears once more: 'You mask your fear with coldness.'
Perturabo's body shuddered.
Deep inside, he knew he could have done better.
He had the wisdom, he had the ability.
He was a Primarch, a demigod.
But he hadn't. Too eager to prove himself to the Emperor, too desperate to trade 'sacrifice' for attention, he had turned his own World into expendable material and treated family ties as dead weight.
He had destroyed his home with his own hands.
In reality, Perturabo opened his mouth, wanting to argue, to lash out with anger as usual, to roar, 'You don't understand my reasons!'
But the words died on his lips; looking at the corpse, every excuse crumbled to ash.
He lowered his head, voice hoarse with a despair that sounded like a broken jar:
'They rebelled… so they deserve to die.'
The moment the words left him, the air seemed to freeze—but it wasn't over.
Perturabo lifted his head; there was no light in those eyes, only a dead, ashen gray.
'And I…'
He pointed at the screen, at the version of himself who had sided with Horus.
'I rebelled out of cowardice… so I, too, deserve to die.'
The hall sank into deathly silence.
Guilliman, who had been searching for words to persuade him, stood stunned.
Vulkan halted mid-step.
Such brutal honesty—laying his ugly wounds bare—left every accusation without a target.
He had admitted he was a coward, admitted he was a sinner; scolding him now felt pointless.
Dorn frowned, ready to point out from logic that 'it hasn't happened yet, no need to sentence yourself to death.'
But before he could speak, the Angel beside him gently pressed his shoulder; Sanguinius shook his head, signaling silence.
In that awkward, heavy atmosphere…
a figure who always lingered in Shadow stepped forward without a sound.
Corax.
The Raven Guard's lord, habitually silent, even gloomy.
He walked up to Perturabo, neither towering over him nor showing excessive warmth.
He simply reached out and, with a firm pat, tapped Perturabo's heavy steel pauldron.
'Look at me, Perturabo.'
Corax's voice was cold but not sharp, like a wind sweeping over ruins.
Perturabo lifted his head, a little slow.
'I don't know exactly what you're thinking right now, but I know… you're in pain.'
Corax said calmly,
'That emptiness after destroying what you loved, that self-loathing that says you're beyond saving—I can feel it.'
He paused, his gaze sweeping across the other Primarchs present, then settling on Perturabo again.
'If you're willing, you can speak.'
'Spit out the poison festering inside you.'
'We won't think you weak for it.'
A self-mocking, faint curve touched Corax's lips.
'Because weakness isn't yours alone, is it?'
He gestured toward the Word Bearers, then toward the Death Guard.
'Lorgar knelt to the gods seeking spiritual sustenance—that's weakness.'
'Mortarion resents the Emperor's grace because he can't admit his debt—by your logic, that's weakness too.'
'Even I…'
Corax said softly,
'I once hid in the shadows because I didn't want to face the slavers of my past. We all have things we fear to confront.'
'So we're not fundamentally different.'
'We are all flawed creations, Perturabo.'
'We are not perfect machines.'
Corax withdrew his hand, not forcing a response.
'Of course, only if—you want to speak.'