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Eden spoke with unshakable confidence, assuring His Imperial Majesty that he could solve the Golden Throne problem.
The Emperor blinked, momentarily taken aback.
"You… can repair the Golden Throne?!"
The Golden Throne is one of the most colossal and complex mechanisms in the galaxy—and xenos-derived at that—its principles alien to human understanding.
The Emperor is not only a sovereign and a peerless warrior, but also humanity's greatest scientist. Even so, in that distant age he understood only the simplest maintenance and ignition protocols, and—driven by dire necessity—brought the Throne online.
Given the Throne's current state of degradation, even if he could transmit instructions, he no longer possessed the bandwidth to supply a full technical solution.
Proud as the Master of Mankind is of his supremacy in the sciences, he found it hard to believe any path to restoration still existed.
Eden, however, waved it off—if anything, a touch smug.
"But of course…"
He made a small, almost casual gesture.
"The Savior's Dominion has just cracked another tier of breakthroughs. Repairing this one? Child's play. Frankly, we could swap in a brand-new unit—any style you like—fully bespoke, Your Majesty."
The Emperor leaned back on the Black Throne and fell silent.
"Are you all right?"
Seeing the Emperor hold his tongue, Eden felt a twinge of concern.
If the Master of Mankind truly faltered now, the spark of hope that had only just rekindled would gutter out, and the Imperium's fragile upswing would collapse into ruin.
"I can hold out for a while yet."
The Emperor looked over at the Savior, his voice low.
Truthfully, he was… disappointed, even a little heartsore, and not inclined to speak further.
Ten millennia ago, the Great Crusade soared—and then it all shattered.
For the sake of a sliver of stable Webway, he withdrew into the Palace to wheeze and grind away at the Golden Throne.
Before the plan could bear fruit, a cascade of calamities left him friendless and damned. He was broken and bound to the Throne.
A tragedy beyond words.
By contrast, Eden started as a frontier governor on the galactic rim; in a blink he had pacified worlds and entire sub-sectors—and even picked up a Blackstone Gate on the way—securing an intact Webway nexus into the bargain.
Compared to the Emperor's ordeal… it felt like a rout. A complete blowout.
If that could be chalked up to luck, then this latest part was harder to swallow: not only had Eden seized Commorragh's Webway arteries, he was now saying that repairing and even building thrones was "no big deal."
Had he really hidden in the Palace, abandoning the reins of empire for centuries to tinker in solitude… for this?
A faint, bitter thought touched him: perhaps he had played the clown.
Perhaps if the Savior had shouldered these trials, mankind would be better off; perhaps the Imperium would not stand upon this knife's edge.
Truth be told, the Savior's Dominion hadn't found the Golden Throne "easy," either—certainly no easier than the Emperor had. The difference was systemic: a mature scientific methodology, deep caches of non-human technologies…
…and—above all—the Machine-Goddess Webby and her nearly boundless computation.
In both breadth of technique and velocity of research, the Dominion outstripped even the Emperor working alone.
On top of that, Eden had infiltrated the Drukhari and stolen the Black Throne fabrication lore. With those schematics, the Dominion's Archmagi and grease-monks had finally understood a throne's architecture and could both maintain and manufacture them.
After a quiet spell, the Emperor spoke again, resignation clouding his tone. "The Golden Throne… I leave it entirely to you."
He added, "But to ward against the worst outcomes, you must continue the search for a way to kill me. There may yet be ancient god-slaying relics in the galaxy. I have not truly become a god—but only such weapons could stop me if it comes to that."
"I'll see it done—and won't fail you."
Eden ignored the Emperor's stiff pride and agreed. The galaxy is littered with high-grade relics; legend speaks of blades like the Croneswords, and worse.
In fact, he and that dutiful son, Guilliman, had been scouting such contingencies for a long while.
For humanity's sake, they had no choice.
Eden looked at the towering form before him, convulsing slightly with pain, and frowned.
Because of the twin-throne Webway plan, the Emperor was now sitting on two seats at once—double the torment.
Of course, His Majesty accepted it willingly. The old Golden Throne had been near a dead end, achieving almost none of its intended aims; this time they had seized all of Commorragh—the largest, most valuable Webway metropolis in existence.
A profit worthy of the pain.
For that, he would sit a third throne if he must.
"The Urth Mechanicus tech-priest cohorts will be here momentarily.
"Restoring and re-engineering the Golden Throne is too critical to rush. We'll begin by rebuilding the Black Throne, then port our lessons back to the Golden Throne."
They had to be meticulous. A mishap that detonated the Golden Throne would be the end of everything.
Better to practice on the Black Throne first.
Eden's voice softened. "You've given too much to mankind, Your Majesty. We'll do everything we can to ease the Throne's agony—make you as comfortable as possible. Perhaps… that's the least we can do."
Hunched upon the Black Throne, the Emperor nodded.
He was exhausted.
Even this brief exchange had drained him; speech in realspace through psychic force alone was costly. Yet his expression had eased—a thread of relief, even.
Whatever else, the Webway War for Commorragh was over. Humanity had won.
With orderly governance, those arteries could finally be put to use.
For the first time in millennia, the Master of Mankind felt something like solace.
Eden did not disturb him further. He went down the steps to a service platform and summoned Archmagos Kaul.
The old tech-lord had roughly reassembled his own servitor-skull "father"—riveting the pieces back together and swapping out damaged components.
More eye-catching, the skull now sported a solid-gold Imperial Aquila etched with benedictional sigils—an honor of the highest order for a servo-cranium.
They had fought to guard the Emperor, and their valor had earned a unique commendation from the Custodes.
Kaul was delighted.
If only he had high-grade soulcraft, he'd have raised the old man from the data-grave just to witness what a genius his boy had become.
"Is the Black Throne refit package ready?"
Eden gave the preening archmagos a sidelong look and a sober warning. "This is not the moment for theatrics. Don't you dare pull one of your 'innovations' now."
He'd already boasted. If the Black Throne upgrade failed—or, worse, caused a cascade fault—he'd seize every last promethium brewery Kaul owned and convert them into trash compactors.
"In the name of the Machine-Goddess, spare me the insult to my craft—especially from someone not versed in the art," Kaul bristled.
Eden's face did not change. "Maybe I don't understand the rites—but I absolutely understand budgets."
Kaul deflated a notch and answered honestly. "You understand more than you pretend. The Black Throne re-engineering suite is fully prepared; all auxiliary machinery is ready for installation. We can begin at once.
"The Golden Throne program is in pre-deployment. We can kick off full works in about two Terran years.
"By our estimates, the Golden Throne can endure another three to five Terran years at current stresses. We have time to optimize."
"Then start now. Finish the Black Throne before the night grows long. Schedule the Golden Throne work as soon as practicable."
The retrofit package had been designed originally for Eden himself—comprehensive and indulgent: sharply reduced pain throughput, boosted comfort, a throne-office mode with recreation, remote comms, and—yes—facilities.
In short: absurdly luxurious. Perfect for His Imperial Majesty.
"Oh—about that speaker I told you to prototype sixty-odd years ago—did you ever finish it?"
Eden recalled a bored afternoon when he'd asked Kaul to build a psychic speech engine—on the off chance he'd ever end up "on the throne," and (if fate allowed) to gift it to the Emperor.
When enthroned, a user's psychic output becomes so immense that even speaking risks psycho-sonic shock. That was why the Emperor kept such silence: he could communicate, but few beings could survive the blast of his voice.
Eden—and other high psykers—could weather it; most could not. Even Guilliman felt like his brain was being raked by a sandstorm whenever he "talked" with the Emperor. An ordinary Astartes might simply die. As for civilian officials—well, imagine a cabinet meeting that begins with half the room keeling over.
But if they had a proper psychic speech engine, the Emperor could talk freely again—even transmit remotely. Convenient beyond measure.
"You did issue that commission. I completed it—but you declared it inauspicious and shelved it. The device is currently… in Private Vault 13, Foundry World Six."
Kaul's mechadendrites flickered as he scraped the data.
"I've already transmitted the retrieval order. The 'Savior's Speech Engine' will arrive before we complete the Black Throne rebuild."
Eden winced.
"Drop that name. Too unlucky. From now on, it's the Emperor's Vox-Speech Engine. Re-tune it for His Majesty's power."
"Easily done," Kaul replied. "Adjust the filters, swap in higher-tolerance valves—the unit will handle His Majesty's output."
Eden's smile returned. "Good. Install it with the refit. Give His Imperial Majesty the deluxe throne experience he deserves."
Soon, heavy haulers arrived with pallets of parts and sub-assemblies.
Archmagos Kaul led dozens of tech-priests; hammers rang and censers smoked as they rebuilt the Black Throne, docking in armatures, cowling, focusing crowns and buffering banks.
Eden remained on site the whole time, eyes sharp, guarding against mishap.
At critical moments, he and the Emperor buttressed the frame together with psychic force, stabilizing the vast engine while teams locked new elements in place.
Bit by bit a radiant Throne-Palace rose around the Black Throne—gold and splendor everywhere.
...
Inside the Throne-Palace—
"I… have not felt this light in ages…"
Seated upon silk-cushioned adamant, the Emperor's expression eased; there was even the ghost of a smile. The pain of the Golden Throne and of belief still gnawed, but the clone-body's local burden had dropped.
By retuning the energy valves and splitting the flow, the refit diffused much of the constant battering to flesh. His clone could rest at baseline and only ramp up to full burn when required.
Most important of all: with the Vox-Speech Engine mounted, the Master of Mankind could speak to others again.
No more elaborate pre-staging to pass on a single sentence.
Moments ago, he had pulled Jaghatai Khan of the White Scars and the Adeptus Custodes into a private channel and read them the riot act—at length.
For millennia he had watched, and with the Throne tapped into the psychic/noospheric lattice he had recovered detail upon detail. In his eyes, much of it was unforgivably foolish.
He had swallowed it for an age. Now, with a voice again, he unleashed it.
The torrent of imperial grade trash talk left Khan and Ten Thousand alike reeling—staggering out of the hall, tearful and chastened.
Listening to the hammering cadence coming out of the Vox-Speech Engine, Eden dabbed at the cold sweat on his brow and took two prudent steps back.
So this is where the Primarchs and every high-tier warrior learned to trash talk.
Turns out the Emperor is the final boss of verbal warfare—an essential skill for a champion: break morale, seize momentum, snatch victory from the brink.
The Savior's Astartes Academies even ran an elective on it.
When Khan and the Custodians finally left, propping each other up, the Emperor's mood calmed. That had been the pressure venting.
Any soul trapped in the Warp for ten thousand years with no one to truly talk to would go mad. That His Majesty had borne it this long was miracle enough.
Eden then gave His Majesty a tour of the Throne-Palace amenities: adjustable throne geometry with variable arc, height, and heat; full noospheric uplinks; hololithic projection; food stores; a complete galley—and a flushable toilet.
A polished golden unit slid out beneath the Emperor's armor with a cheerful chime and a cutesy voice saying, "You've got this! Do your best!"
The Emperor stared, nonplussed.
At his level, digestion is total; there's nothing to… evacuate.
Pssst—
A friendly little water jet spritzed His Majesty's rear armor.
He slowly turned to Eden, face darkening a shade.
"…Experience."
Eden kept a straight face. "The design brief emphasizes a human experience for you on the Black Throne."
Honestly, that is a hallmark of the Dominion's design language.
He handed over a dataslate.
"Webby has registered a high-privilege Noospheric Net account for you. You can browse conditions across the Imperium, keep up with feeds, and contact people through secure channels. My advice: use avatars where possible—no need to stir a frenzy by outing your identity."
"The Imperium has a ruler now—and it is you. I will not interfere with the new order, unless the battlefield truly needs my benediction—in your name, Savior."
He had gamed this out long ago. He loathed the bottomless maw of worship and the pain it brought—and the looming, lethal risk of apotheosis. When blessings must fall, they would wear the Savior's face, diverting faith toward the little sun and reducing the chance of a catastrophic darkening.
As for what becomes of Eden later—that was a problem for later.
Eden agreed. Blunting the Emperor's dangerous accretion of belief came first; everything else could queue.
More Sacred Sun-Towers were already being raised.
The Emperor took the slate and began to play. Once the greatest human scientist, he mastered the interface in moments.
Grinning, he bantered with Webby on the Noospheric Net, then—on a high-privilege admin forum—casually posted a long, scathing essay tearing into Imperial Regent Roboute Guilliman's famous toilet-paper opus, the Codex Astartes.
It was a thorough mockery—and a relentless beating besides.
Eden watched His Majesty run wild under a burner handle and felt the corner of his mouth twitch. He understood, though.
Before he chose to shoulder mankind's fate, the Emperor had been a free soul: a wandering artist, a decadent rake, a Roman street "professional." This was a shard of that humanity resurfacing.
Let him have his joy—Webby would keep him out of trouble.
Eden finished the tour: a micro-garden, medicae suite, simulated leisure chamber, and tether-cable harness that let His Majesty walk the palace perimeter and actually move while remaining securely linked.
Just as Eden began introducing the next wing, the palace lights dimmed to rose and a warm, intoxicating atmosphere spread…
(End of Chapter)
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