Chapter 4: The Debate
Erebus did not fully understand how matters had reached this point.
He was bound to a stone pillar at the center of the cathedral, thick cords biting into his arms and chest. Carved into the pillar behind him was a bas-relief of a many-eyed warp entity—avian, twisting, its wings etched with sigils of change. The iconography was unmistakable.
A daemon of Tzeentch.
The uneven stone pressed painfully into Erebus' back, sending a constant ache through his spine.
Before him stood the Reformists—Word Bearer legionaries and priests alike—watching him with cold, evaluative stares. Their eyes did not burn with faith so much as expectation.
At the center sat Lorgar Aurelian.
To his right stood Kor Phaeron.
Kor Phaeron's gaze was sharp, resentful, and utterly devoid of warmth. It was the look of a man who had already decided on Erebus' guilt and was merely waiting for permission to act.
"Listen to me, my son," Kor Phaeron said harshly. "This one should be executed at once. He has blasphemed you—the son of the divine."
Erebus snorted before he could stop himself.
"Pathetic old fool."
Kor Phaeron heard him.
"What did you say?" he snarled, stepping forward.
Erebus lifted his head slightly, meeting the old man's eyes.
"I said you're an idiot. Loud enough this time?"
Steel flashed.
Kor Phaeron drew his blade and leveled it at Erebus' throat, the polished edge catching the torchlight.
No one had spoken to him like this in decades.
He was the foster-father of a Primarch. The architect of the Word Bearers' faith. Men groveled before him. Entire worlds burned at his word.
And now some bound madman dared to insult him.
Rage twisted Kor Phaeron's features into something ugly.
"That's enough," Lorgar said quietly.
The single sentence froze the room.
"And you—Erebus," Lorgar continued, turning his gaze toward the bound man. "I have heard of your deeds. This city speaks your name with respect."
"Since we both revere the Emperor of Mankind, I will not pursue what has already occurred."
Kor Phaeron stiffened, his jaw tightening. He said nothing—only shot Erebus a look full of venom.
"Tell me," Lorgar said, leaning forward slightly. "What revelation has the Emperor granted you?"
Erebus laughed softly.
"You really want to know?"
"Yes," Lorgar replied without hesitation. "The Emperor's will must be understood. Your presence proves I am not alone on this path. But I still have questions."
"You will not leave until you answer them."
Erebus exhaled slowly.
So not only fanatical—obsessive.
"Fine," he said. "Ask."
Not because he was afraid—but because the ropes were cutting into his ribs, and the attention of an entire cult was not healthy for anyone.
"Everything," Lorgar said. "Everything about the Emperor's will. All that you know."
Erebus studied him carefully.
Lorgar looked less like a god and more like a lost pilgrim—utterly convinced of his own faith, desperate for confirmation, crushed beneath the weight of meaning he had assigned himself.
A Primarch reduced to a seeker.
That belief—unshakable, self-reinforcing—had brought him here. It was both his strength and his ruin.
Erebus decided then that this path had to be broken.
"Do you think He cares?" Erebus asked suddenly.
The chamber stilled.
"What?" Lorgar said.
"Do you think the Emperor cares about what you're doing right now?" Erebus pressed. "Do you think He cares about your rituals, your sacrifices, your wars of belief?"
"Brother," Lorgar replied carefully, "I am not debating you. I wish only to understand the Emperor's will."
"You still don't get it," Erebus said flatly. "That being you saw—the one you call divine. Call Him the Emperor if you like. Call Him golden. Call Him whatever makes you sleep at night."
"You assume the thoughts of gods based on your own mind."
"Do you really believe gods care the way humans do?"
Lorgar hesitated.
Something in Erebus' words disturbed him—not because they were offensive, but because they rang uncomfortably close to truth.
Kor Phaeron slammed his staff against the floor.
"Do not listen to him!" he barked. "This is heresy of the worst kind. Worse than the Old Faith. He must be executed—hung and burned!"
Erebus laughed outright.
"My brother," he said to Lorgar, ignoring Kor Phaeron entirely, "you received revelation. So did I."
"But revelation does not mean understanding."
"You try to interpret the will of gods. That is your mistake."
"When you believe you walk the correct path, the gods may see only arrogance. When you walk the wrong path, they see only foolishness."
"A true god does not hand out blessings like gifts. A true god tests. Breaks. Forces growth through suffering."
Kor Phaeron could endure no more. He surged forward, blade raised—
—and Lorgar stopped him with a single outstretched hand.
"That's nonsense," Kor Phaeron roared, shaking with fury. "Utter nonsense!"
"If you had not restrained me, I would have ended him already!"
Erebus met Lorgar's gaze.
"Answer me," he said quietly. "Do you think the Emperor fears death?"
"Do you think He fears your death?"
"Or the death of this world?"
Silence.
Lorgar said nothing.
For the first time since his awakening, doubt crept into the Primarch's heart.
Then Erebus spoke again.
"Of course He cares."
Lorgar's shoulders relaxed—only for his expression to darken as he realized Erebus was not finished.
"But not the way you think."
"Say what you mean," Lorgar said softly, weariness creeping into his voice. "And say it clearly."
Erebus smiled faintly.
Gods did not want worship.
They wanted results.
And that truth—once spoken—could shatter empires.