There were no pursuers for the moment, granting them a rare instant of peace.
Kaelen rubbed his hands idly, his curiosity thoroughly piqued by Horus’s words.
His eyes drifted unconsciously to the Wolf God’s left hand.
There sat a golden ring, striking and conspicuous.
“Is that…
the golden Centaur ring the Emperor gave you?” Kaelen blurted out.
Horus wasn’t surprised at all that Kaelen could name the ring’s origin.
After all, this mortal knew far too many secrets already; one more hardly made a difference.
He extended his hand candidly, admitting, “Yes.” “When the Ullanor Crusade ended and I was granted the title of Warmaster, he bestowed it upon me with his own hands.” Horus’s gaze deepened.
“He said I was his archer, his Sagittarius, his Wolf God.” Here, Horus smiled—a warm, brilliant, completely normal smile.
This was nothing like the fan-created posts Kaelen had seen before transmigrating—the ones depicting Horus as a drooling fool with a gay father complex, babbling, “Father loves me, I love Father.” Of course, the Black Library authors were partly to blame, especially that Guy Haley fellow, who wrote Horus with that morbid, borderline homoerotic daddy issues obsession.
Who knew if he was inserting his own agenda?
Dan Abnett wrote him much better; in Dan’s hands, Horus was a warm, bright sun radiating charisma.
Or Dave Thorpe’s depiction—a confident, magnetic, and reliable king, a true boss.
Anyway, getting sidetracked.
To the real Horus standing before him, that golden Centaur ring represented power, glory, and above all, an emblem of unreserved trust.
He was proud to have earned the Emperor’s trust, and the weight of those lofty expectations filled him with boundless strength.
“Would you like to hear that story, Kaelen?” Horus’s voice carried a rare touch of gentleness.
“The thirty years I spent alone with him.
To me, those were the sweetest, most peaceful days of my life.
In those thirty years, his ideals and mine merged into one, indistinguishable from each other…” The Warmaster was clearly winding up for a grand monologue, eager to reminisce about those glorious years.
But he had barely raised a hand before Kaelen ruthlessly cut him off.
“Enough, enough, stop right there!” Kaelen waved his hands frantically, disgust written all over his face.
“I’ve ingested enough of this thirty-year filial devotion narrative.
Take it away!” “Oh, my friend, have a little patience, won’t you?” Horus said helplessly.
“Whenever I told these stories back in the Legion, my sons were always eager to listen.” “Well, duh, those were your actual sons.
I’m not,” Kaelen rolled his eyes.
At that, Horus burst out laughing.
During the Great Crusade, no one would have dared to interrupt the Warmaster like this.
Yet now, he actually found it amusing.
Even he was surprised by how remarkably patient he was with this mortal.
“If you don’t want to hear about my father, let me talk about my sons then,” Horus sat up straight, crossing his legs.
“Didn’t you mention Hastur Sejanus, Torgaddon, and Garviel Loken earlier?” “Now you’re talking!
That’s what I wanted to hear.
Spill the details!” In the dim underground facility, the Primarch and the mortal sat face-to-face.
One spoke, the other listened.
“In all honesty, my love for my sons does carry a bit of favoritism.
After all, the Luna Wolves have so many capable warriors,” Horus said, a father’s pride lacing his tone.
“But overall, I dote on my Legion and my sons—especially my Mournival.” “Ezekyle is the strongest, most resolute, and the one who resembles me the most.
But Hastur Sejanus and the others possess a different kind of strength.
If Ezekyle is my Lupercal, my eldest son, then Hastur Sejanus is my Guilliman.
Sedirae is my Dorn, Torgaddon is my Ferrus, and oh, Aximand—he looks so much like me that they call him ‘Little Horus’ in the Legion.” Horus let out a hearty laugh, his eyes brimming with nostalgia.
“What about Garviel Loken?” Kaelen prompted at the right moment.
“Don’t be impatient, I was just getting to him.” Horus leaned his massive body forward and lowered his voice, like sharing a major secret with an old friend.
“And of course, Garviel Loken.
Since you know of him, I assume you know what kind of man he is?
In many ways, he isn’t like me at all, yet he is my favorite son.
If anyone else asked, I would deny it—I cannot show favoritism.
But since it’s just the two of us, I’ll tell you: he is my Sanguinius.” When mentioning Garviel Loken, the radiance in the demigod’s eyes shone even brighter than when he talked about the Emperor.
Kaelen watched him quietly, offering no reply.
Indeed.
Setting aside the halos of Arch-Traitor and the Emperor’s First-Found Son, the Horus before him was ultimately just a father who deeply loved his children.
“You know Sanguinius, right?” Horus asked.
“Yeah,” Kaelen nodded.
Lord of the Ninth Legion, Baal’s gentle Great Angel…
who wouldn’t love a warm-on-the-outside, cunningly scheming soul like him?
“So what is he like in your eyes?” Horus pressed, a glint of curiosity in his gaze.
After all, Sanguinius was his closest brother, and he had mentored him for a time until Sanguinius rejoined the Ninth Legion.
“Warm on the outside, cold on the inside—and a bit of a devious schemer,” Kaelen evaluated.
“Oh?
Why is that?” “It’s hard to explain concisely, since that’s just my personal take.
But from Konrad Curze’s perspective, the Great Angel was definitely devious.” “Curze?
Ah, you mean my brother.” Horus nodded in understanding.
He recalled that pale-faced brother who blurted out bizarre phrases from time to time.
During the Great Crusade, Horus hadn’t paid him much mind; Fulgrim was the one who mentored Curze, and rumors said they got along well.
“Curze had psychic prophetic abilities, far stronger and more vivid than Sanguinius’s.
He foresaw your rebellion long ago and originally wanted to prevent that future, but eventually gave up and threw in his lot with the traitors.” Kaelen cleared his throat slightly, observing Horus’s facial expression.
The Wolf God gestured for him to continue.
“Later, after fighting Lion El’Jonson at Tsagualsa, Curze was captured on the Lion’s flagship and brought to Macragge.” “And then?” the Wolf God pressed.
“Later, Curze took a drop pod down to Macragge and played hide-and-seek with Lion El’Jonson and Guilliman.
Then Sanguinius arrived, and the three of them casually founded Imperium Secundus.” “When they finally captured Curze, Sanguinius told him that since prophecy said Curze would die, he would bring Curze back to the Emperor, suggesting the Emperor might forgive him.
Curze panicked—he realized the vision was changing and felt a glimmer of hope.
But then the Angel told him, ‘Father might forgive you, but I won’t.’ And then he shoved Curze into a stasis capsule and jettisoned him into space.” After listening, Horus nodded in complete understanding.
That was indeed Sanguinius’s way of doing things—seemingly gentle, yet ruthlessly decisive in truth.
However, an even more mind-blowing term from a moment ago was buzzing in the Warmaster’s mind.
“Wait, Kaelen,” Horus frowned, his expression turning grave as never before.
“Did you just say…
Imperium Secundus?
What on earth does that mean?” “Ah…
well, about that,” Kaelen drawled, leaning back tactically.
“After the Horus Heresy broke out, Warp storms completely cut off all signals to Terra.
Everyone was blindly guessing whether the Emperor was already dead.” “To preserve the sparks of human civilization, Lord Roboute Guilliman pushed past all objections and gathered Lion El’Jonson and Sanguinius to start a brand-new kingdom.” Kaelen looked at the Warmaster and dropped the bombshell word by word: “Sanguinius became Emperor of Imperium Secundus, Guilliman served as Lord Regent, and as for Lion El’Jonson…
he became Warmaster.” The moment those words left his mouth, Kaelen saw a complex swirl of emotions cross Horus’s face—yet anger was the one thing noticeably absent.