Interlude: A Midnight Conversation with the Lord of Night
[Nightfall]
Rustling sounds came from the cold darkness, frost crawling up the metal walls.
Sevatar stood calmly by the side of the hatch, breathing steadily, listening to the faint hiss of his armor's life-support systems.
From within the shadows of the room came a flurry of low, rapid murmurs—the sound of a quill scratching across parchment, droplets of water, clinks of metal, labored breathing—and then, suddenly, silence.
Sevatar closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
When he opened them again, the towering, hunched form of his Primarch stood before him.
"Good day, Lord of Night."
Sevatar bowed calmly. Konrad Curze's pallid face was shrouded by tangled hair, his pitch-black eyes glinting faintly through the strands.
[Sev, are you well?]
Curze's voice was a rasping hiss. Since being exposed to Mortarion's poisons, Sevatar's breathing had grown strained—each breath a quiet struggle.
Sevatar paused.
"I am fine, my lord. Thank you for your concern. We will soon arrive at Nostramo—please be prepared."
Konrad was silent. The monstrous figure stooped down, resting his clawed hands upon Sevatar's pauldrons, staring into his eyes.
[I… have seen the rot upon that world. It will fall—not just it, but all things. Everything. They are angry—unbearably angry.]
Sevatar maintained his breathing rhythm, imagining himself a machine—still, unflinching.
"My lord, I believe we must focus on present matters. This is the Legion's final chance to secure supplies; we must also fulfill the Death Guard's order. Otherwise, we will have no future."
He finished his words and waited—for punishment, perhaps, or worse: the Mercy and Forgiveness.
Yet somewhere deep within, he found himself hoping—hoping his Primarch would not do it.
To his surprise, Konrad Curze did not strike him. He simply looked at Sevatar in silence—eyes filled with something between a question and a lament.
Then Curze shook his head… and then nodded.
[Sev, do you want to know how you die?]
Sevatar felt his mouth go dry.
"My lord, we agreed never to discuss that matter. I have no wish to know the hour of my death."
"And besides,"He fixed his gaze on Curze.
"My lord, the Legion needs you—now."
Curze raised a finger to his lips. To Sevatar's surprise, a strange, almost mischievous smile curved across the Night Haunter's mouth.
[Sev… truth is, I don't know where you finally fall.]
A low, guttural chuckle escaped from the Primarch's throat—like the cry of some monstrous bird in the night, echoing through the void before fading into the darkness, vast and indistinct.
Sevatar was certain he saw Curze's eyes twitch violently for an instant, writhing with unnatural motion—but then, just as suddenly, the Primarch was calm again.
In his eyes lingered a sorrow—the unchanging sorrow of eternal night.
[Sev, in the end, all things are doomed to ruin, sliding into tragedy. It's nothing but the dream of the arrogant—we are all castoffs…]
[But I no longer care.]
[I no longer care.]
Sevatar's muscles tightened. He watched his Primarch's murmurs in silence, as though two souls were trapped within one body—one screaming its grief and darkness, the other sobbing and tearing at itself in mute despair.
At last, Konrad Curze looked at Sevatar.
[The future has no meaning.]
He spoke softly, [They… keep changing, but they are always the same. There is no place for us in the future.]
Sevatar slowed his breathing.
"What would you have us do, my lord?"
Curze hesitated for a heartbeat at Sevatar's question, but then continued,
[Do what you wish to do, Sev.]
The hand pressing against Sevatar's pauldron twitched; the Primarch was lost in a painful memory.
[I… no longer care. That day I saw too many possibilities. Every one of them ended in destruction—tragedy, and laughter—endless laughter…]
[But in the end, you still lived, Sev. You have a billion possible futures, yet only one present.]
Sevatar pressed his lips together, attempting a foolish smile—and failed.
"Yes, my lord. I am here."
[Do what you wish to do, Sev.]
Curze's voice carried an uncanny gentleness as he repeated the words.
[You are a noble sinner, Sev. If there is any light left within the corrupted Night Lords, it can only be you. It must be you. Only you can keep your soul intact in the depths of hell.]
Curze's eyes locked onto Sevatar.
[If anyone in the Legion or on Nostramo stands against you, tell me.]
When the final word fell, silence descended.
Silence.
Sevatar felt his throat tighten. The Night Haunter had spoken… unthinkable words.
He remembered the knowing glance Hades once gave him—the subtle implication behind it—and the doubts that had stirred within him back then…
This could not be. The Primarch could not be like this. Neither could he.
"My lord, the Legion needs you."
Sevatar's voice came out dry and strained. But Curze tilted his head, looking at him with sorrow.
[I am being watched. It cannot be me.]
"My lord, I do not understand your meaning."
Curze shook his head again—more like a frantic tremor than denial. His eyes began to twitch and roll once more, unstable, but he still tried to explain:
[A fish cannot realize it lives in water… not until it is torn from it, left gasping in the dry air.]
[They have watched me—since before I was aware, before I was born, before any of this tragedy began.]
Curze's mind was unraveling again. Sevatar could smell the psychic discharge in the air. The Primarch suddenly recoiled, jerking his hand away, retreating into the darkness as if fleeing from himself.
[Sev, do what you wish to do. Do not let the Legion's final light die out.]
From the shadows came Curze's whisper—half hiss, half roar.
Sevatar swallowed hard. He still could not comprehend his Primarch's words, yet he tried—he had to try. He raised his voice and called out:
"Father, how can I stop you from being watched?"
From the darkness came a cry—raw, anguished, despairing. Sevatar could imagine Curze clawing at his own flesh.
[Too late! Far too late! We saw it all too late! And how could that madman ever help us?!]
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