Caelan slowly raised his hand. That simple gesture made Mortarion instinctively lower his head, positioning it so Caelan could easily reach.
Caelan had intended to pat Mortarion's shoulder, but instead, he gently placed his hand on the top of his head.
"I've never blamed you. Not before, not now. You should be more confident. I like you when you're confident."
Mortarion slowly straightened his spine. His nod was subtle, but it carried the weight of realization and resolve.
"We need to leave."
Mortarion stepped over the scattered corpses and led Caelan to the glass door at the edge of the wall.
The reinforced glass was filthy, covered in dark green algae like a sickly moss. Winds from the canyon below swept away the thick, toxic fog, revealing the jagged gorge beneath.
They should have left already. His foster father would soon discover his betrayal.
The only reason Mortarion lingered was his concern that Caelan wouldn't survive Barbarus's environment.
Barbarus was a savage, merciless world. Every native creature was a grotesque embodiment of poison and ugliness.
Toxic lichen covered every inch of rock like rotting skin. Hook-toothed eels and serpentine creatures slithered through the damp soil.
The sky was stained with a sickly orange hue. The rare sunlight that pierced the clouds was weak and murky, like diluted pus spreading pale blotches across the heavens.
The light brought no life, only more twisted shadows cast by jagged peaks.
Thanks to the "favor" of the gods, poison had seeped into every inch of this world.
As altitude increased, the toxins thickened into visible fog, wrapping the mountains like a deadly veil.
Only the warp-blessed overlords could sit atop the misty peaks. Their palaces jutted from the toxic clouds like bone spurs from diseased gums, overlooking a dying world.
Outside the castle, the poison levels had reached suffocating extremes. Even Mortarion struggled to breathe.
Each breath felt like blades slicing his lungs.
If even he suffered, how could his mortal father endure?
Caelan noticed Mortarion's worry and smiled calmly. "Don't forget, I'm a psyker. I learned to filter air with psychic power back on Nostramo."
Mortarion nodded silently.
He hated psykers. He hated the overlords who wielded sorcery.
Even after Caelan explained the truth about psychic power, that hatred remained.
But Caelan was the exception.
Mortarion pushed open the door. A gust of wind swept the toxic fog around them.
He watched Caelan closely through the corrosive mist. If Caelan showed any discomfort, he'd shut the door immediately.
If they were doomed to die, let the overlord come. He'd take them both down.
But he worried for nothing. A pale blue psychic aura enveloped Caelan like liquid crystal, forming a perfect spherical shield in the murky air.
The shield expanded, covering Mortarion too.
Though he was used to living with poison, his father's instinctive protection made his heart tighten.
Caelan noticed his hesitation. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing. Let's go."
Mortarion turned his face away, hiding the emotion on his face.
The castle walls were lined with puppets, soldiers of the overlord, usually commanded by Mortarion to attack rival lords.
Though they feared Mortarion, they roared in fury when they saw Caelan, raising spears and heavy crossbows.
One of the overlord's rules: Mortarion was forbidden from contacting humans.
Mortarion burst from the psychic shield, his rifle roaring, tearing through flesh and bone.
Spears flew toward him, but he caught them mid-air.
His axe carved a deadly arc. A pus-covered head spun through the air, leaving a trail of slime on the ground.
When the puppets aimed at Caelan, Mortarion raised his arm to block.
Arrows flew, but froze mid-air before reaching flesh. Psychic ripples formed an invisible barrier, suspending the deadly arrow in place.
Mortarion understood, Caelan was protecting him, just as he had protected Caelan.
"My father is behind me!"
He didn't look back, but the weight of responsibility pressed on his shoulders. And a quiet comfort flowed through his veins; his father was watching.
Nothing could stop a Primarch, especially one determined to protect his father.
The puppets were obliterated. Only corpses remained.
Boom!
A dull explosion echoed through the canyon. A convoy of steam vehicles crawled up the mountain pass.
Such scenes were common, mechanical beasts hauling puppet armies or returning with loot and prisoners.
One of the trucks exploded from within, flipping off the road into a ditch.
Smoke billowed. A ragged boy crawled from the wreckage, retching despite his breathing mask.
Escort vehicles screeched to a halt. Puppets poured out, chasing the escaping prisoners.
But the boy didn't flee alone.
He returned to the wreckage, pulling out more survivors, men, women, and children, all strong and healthy.
They were experimental stock, meant for Necare's flaying workshop.
Even if they escaped, where could they go?
They couldn't fight the puppets. They couldn't survive the altitude.
Desperate, they ran toward the castle. The boy stopped. On the wall stood a pale figure.
"Who are you?" the boy cried, half sobbing. "Standing above it all, watching us burn? You see us! You could help!"
"Why now? Why not before?"
Mortarion clenched his fists, knuckles white.
If not for his father, he would have saved them.
But he wasn't alone anymore. He had to protect Caelan first.
The puppets weren't the problem. They'd already wasted too much time. If they stopped to help, and the overlord arrived…
Caelan asked softly, "Do you want to save them?"
"Father, I…" Mortarion's voice caught.
"Your brothers faced the same dilemma: save five or save one. If that one was me, and they couldn't stop the train, they'd choose me. I believe any of you would."
"You're not grown yet. The overlord is your unstoppable train. You want to save me, but your conscience aches."
"Honestly, I'm proud of you." His voice was warm, but firm. "Because you chose me. And because you're kind. But I don't want you to regret it."
"So let me be clear, I can stop that train. You don't have to carry the moral burden. Make your choice freely."
Mortarion's breath paused. This wasn't a binary choice. Caelan had given him a way out.
His father was mortal, but a powerful psyker. Stronger than his foster father. He had crossed the galaxy to find him.
All Mortarion had to do was ask. All he had to do was let go of his pride.
Even if the man before him was his biological father, he'd never bow his head.
But this man had given everything to save him.
Was it so hard to let go of pride?
"Father… help me."
Relief flooded Mortarion. Letting go felt light. His heart danced in his chest, every beat singing with joy.
He didn't have to bear suffering alone. This was what it felt like to be protected. This was what it meant to have someone to rely on.
He took a deep breath. Even the poison tasted sweet. Breathing had never felt so free.
Cough, cough!
Mortarion doubled over, coughing violently, as if his lungs were burning.
His spirit was light, but his body still thought he was sick.
"I'll help you. Always."
Caelan's hand gently patted Mortarion's trembling back, each touch steady and soothing.
"Go. Reach out to those hands reaching for you."
"Just like my father reached out to me." Mortarion whispered the words to himself. They sank into his burning chest like warm honey.
He straightened slowly. The cough lingered, but his breath was easier.
Caelan withdrew his hand, but left behind invisible strength, like a cloak draped over Mortarion's shoulders.
"Father," Mortarion said quietly.
"Yes?"
"Please… watch me."
"I will. Always."
Mortarion leapt from the wall, slicing through the toxic fog like a blade.
The stitched-together puppets were strong. They felt no pain. They feared no death. They were driven by sorcery.
But before a Primarch, even they were no different from mortals.
Mortarion swept through them with spear and axe. Their bodies shattered like dry reeds. Rotting fluids sprayed through the air. Limbs littered the ground.
This wasn't a battle. It was a slaughter.
Like a child tearing apart toys, except the pieces were flesh and bone.
The mortals stopped running. They stared, wide-eyed, mouths agape.
The scene defied imagination. A giant had descended from the sky to destroy the puppets that once made them despair.
Then a pale blue glow enveloped them like silk.
Their lungs, long tormented by poison, tasted clean air again, like rain on a parched riverbed.
Some coughed uncontrollably, not from pain, but from purging the toxins.
Some knelt, trembling fingers touching the psychic barrier, trying to confirm it wasn't
The mortals stood frozen, their cracked lips trembling as they reached out to touch the shimmering psychic veil. It felt unreal, like a dream before death. But the air was clean.
Their lungs, long poisoned, now tasted clarity. Some coughed violently, not from pain, but from purging years of toxins. Others knelt, weeping, unsure if this salvation was real.
Among them, the boy who had led the escape stared upward. His eyes locked onto the pale figure descending from the wall, Mortarion, his cloak billowing like storm winds, his landing as light as a falling leaf.
The boy saw in Mortarion a reflection of himself, the same power, but perfected. His fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. Jealousy and longing surged in his chest.
Caelan noticed. His gaze flicked to the boy, and a flicker of heat and shadow, passed through his eyes.
Smack!
Caelan raised his hand and flicked the boy's forehead. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make him flinch.
The boy rubbed his head, eyes wide with confused indignation.
"Why me?"
Caelan leaned in, voice low. "Repeat after me: 'Father of Decay, f*** you.'"
The boy recoiled. "Why?"
He knew who the Father of Decay was, the god the overlords worshipped. Even he…
Smack!
Another flick. "Say it. Or die."
Caelan's eyes held no malice, but the boy felt a chill down his spine. He was serious.
The boy's throat bobbed. He couldn't speak.
Smack!
"Last chance," Caelan said, voice like thunder. "Say it."
Tears welled in the boy's eyes. He trembled, then whispered, "Father of Decay… fuck you."
"Louder."
"Father of Decay, fuck you!"
"Clearer. Enunciate."
"Father of Decay, f-u-c-k y-o-u!"
"Good. That's the spirit." Caelan clapped the boy's shoulder. "What's your name?"
"Calas Typhon."
"From now on, say that phrase a thousand times a day. Got it?"
Typhon's knees buckled, but Caelan steadied him.
"Y-yes."
Mortarion returned, dragging his bloodied spear behind him. The path behind him was littered with puppet corpses.
He looked down at Typhon. He didn't understand why his father had singled him out, but he trusted Caelan. If Typhon had been punished, he must have deserved it.
Caelan hadn't targeted Typhon out of cruelty. Though Typhon would one day become Typhus, the Herald of Nurgle, the harbinger of decay, right now, he was just a pawn.
When Mortarion landed on Barbarus, Nurgle's plan had already begun. The overlord raised him, hoping he'd become a follower of the Plague God.
But Mortarion resisted. His will was too strong. So Nurgle changed tactics; he targeted Typhon.
Typhon was half-human, half-overlord. Rejected by both sides.
He had fought to overthrow the overlords. He had vowed never to become a monster. But he was never respected like Mortarion. Not even his comrades accepted him. His psychic gifts made him an outcast.
Humans crave recognition. The deepest desire of the human soul is to be seen and praised.
When Typhon couldn't find acceptance among humans, he turned to faith.
He was fascinated by decay. Nurgle offered him what others denied: validation.
He told Typhon he would become a great messenger.
That's how corruption begins.
First, a little recognition. Then, small temptations. Desire snowballs. Boundaries blur. Until one day, you look back and realize you've burned the bridge behind you, and ahead lies only the abyss.
But that was Typhus's future. Typhon still had a chance.
He had risked his life to save mortals. He hadn't committed unforgivable sins.
Before others abandoned him, Typhon still saw himself as human. He still dreamed of being a hero.
As long as he wasn't Erebus, rotten to the core, Caelan would give him a chance.
If Typhon refused to learn, Caelan would send him to meet the Father of Decay himself.
Caelan turned to Mortarion. "Little Mo, is he coming?"
"Not yet." Mortarion looked toward the mountain peak. So much time had passed. If the overlord hadn't come by now, he probably wouldn't.
"Then let's go."
Mortarion stood silently beside Caelan. The psychic shield shimmered around them, a blue beacon in the storm.
The mortals huddled inside the safe zone, afraid to fall behind, or step beyond the invisible boundary.
As for Typhon…
He was still confused. Why had Caelan made him curse the Father of Decay?
He shrank into himself. Would the god punish him?
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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