Aboard the flagship of the Sons of Horus,
Abaddon watched his primarch with deep concern.
Ever since Horus had awakened, his expression had been dark and distant.
The bandages wrapped around his grievous wounds only made Abaddon more uneasy.
"Does your body still pain you, my lord?" he finally asked.
Horus shook his head.
"…It's not that. I am merely thinking."
He hesitated, but still kept the truth hidden from his son.
His hand drifted to the wound on his abdomen.
After regaining consciousness, he had re-examined the injury—
and what he found was exactly what he remembered from the moment he fell.
Inside him lay organs that no human should possess.
Even the medical personnel—veteran apothecaries who had tended to countless Astartes—
had been unable to identify most of the structures within his body.
The only things they could confidently recognize were three beating hearts.
For fear of damaging some vital organ they did not understand,
they dared not attempt complex surgery and instead performed only a cautious, surface-level treatment.
Recalling the confusion and fear in their eyes,
Horus's expression grew even colder.
'Human…? Human?
What have I been fighting for all these years…?'
He felt as though his entire life had been woven of lies.
His lineage—false.
His glory—false.
His father's affection—false.
Even the cause he had dedicated his existence to… was a lie.
'Was everything I ever fought for never truly mine…?'
His handsome, resolute face tightened; veins surfaced along his temples.
The turmoil within was impossible to hide.
Yet he remained clear-headed enough to recognize the intentions of the Chaos Gods.
They had no goodwill toward him—
they were simply reclaiming what the Emperor had tried to withhold.
He clenched his fist.
The strength pulsing through him was far beyond anything he once possessed—
enticing, intoxicating.
But he could feel it clearly:
If he relied too deeply on that power,
he would become nothing more than a puppet of the Gods.
Thus, the only thing he could truly rely upon…
was himself.
At present, though the Chaos Gods had secured their bargain with Horus,
they had not corrupted him fully.
Not because they lacked the ability—
but because forcing corruption onto a powerful, unwilling mind would risk madness and mental collapse.
A raving beast would be useless to them.
They needed a rational Warmaster,
one who would strike at the Imperium with purpose.
And indeed—
with the truth of his birth laid bare and betrayal twisting in his heart—
Horus already walked the path to rebellion on his own.
Across countless futures the Gods had glimpsed,
the result was always the same:
A new civil war would soon ignite the Imperium—
rooted in the conflicting values and growing resentment among the Primarchs themselves.
---
Prospero
On the world of Prospero,
the Primarch Magnus the Red paced his courtyard anxiously.
Normally calm and composed,
his single remaining eye was now full of agitation.
Designed by the Emperor to master psychic arts,
Magnus was the greatest psyker among all the Primarchs.
And just recently—
through the warp—
he had sensed his brother Horus being consumed by terrifying Warp forces.
The realization had chilled him to his core.
Without hesitation, he had reached out to Horus via psychic projection,
desperately attempting to dissuade him.
But Horus ignored every warning.
Magnus could not tell whether Horus was compromised,
or simply refusing to listen.
If the Warmaster—the second most important pillar of the Imperium—truly fell…
The consequences were unthinkable.
Unable to stand idle, Magnus had rushed toward his ship, preparing to fly to Terra—
only for a sudden, unnatural Warp storm to engulf Prospero's orbit,
locking the entire region out of the Immaterium.
He was trapped.
And with Warp travel impossible,
his only remaining hope was psychic communication.
But the Emperor had expressly ordered:
No one was to disturb Him.
No psychic communications of any kind were permitted.
With every path blocked,
Magnus found himself paralyzed with uncertainty.
Hours passed.
Then at last, he made his choice.
He would send a psychic warning to the Emperor—
a spell powerful enough to pierce the Warp's turbulence and reach Terra.
The consequences did not matter.
No potential disaster, he believed, could surpass the threat of Horus's fall.
Such a catastrophe could destroy the entire Imperium.
The Emperor had to be warned—
before it was too late.
Thus Magnus, the second-strongest psyker in human history,
drew upon the totality of his power.
In the depths of the Warp,
he shaped a newly developed spell—vast, luminous, and overwhelming.
It blazed forth like a cosmic aurora,
cutting through daemon realms and impossible geometries,
surging inexorably toward Terra…
....
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