Chapter Text
“This is wrong…”
Magnus all but stumbles out of the array’s heart.
“This… this should not be possible!”
On his way, he barely remembers to banish the shade of the future. Let the mists gather then return to the Immaterium.
“The future…”
His voice dies in his throat as he realizes:
He is repeating the very words Curze shouted at him hours ago.
At the time, Magnus had thought him mad and delirious, over-exaggerating what would be just a small issue. Because surely, the future—so unruly and mysterious—still existed?
But no.
Curze has been correct all along. This is no failure of his foresight, nor a gene-flaw newly birthed in his Legion.
The future is well and truly gone.
And the implications…
… are dire.
“Magnus!”
He flinches and turns.
It is Curze, striding forward with fury ablaze in his eyes.
“What is it?!” His brother snaps at him. “Why is the future gone?!”
“I…” Magnus swallows, eye drifting back to the center of the array. “I don’t know…”
The divination ritual failed—something that has never happened to him and his sons before. And its failure did not leave behind any answers on a tidy sheet of paper, only more questions.
“No,” Curze snarls, shaking his head in denial. At his sides, his fingers begin twitching erratically, as if desperate to sink into flesh and alleviate his stress. “You must know! I came here—to you—for answers! You have to know something!”
Magnus tries.
“It… it can’t have vanished without reason,” he whispers, repeating yet another of his brother’s previous claims. “Something… something must have changed.”
Curze squints. “What?”
“Something… crucial,” Magnus replies faintly. As his mind races to conceive of answers, he begins to ramble to himself: “Perhaps… a pillar? Some great focal point for the future…?”
It must be so vital that without it… collapse follows.
But what specifically? An event? A person?
The possibilities are as endless as the future itself. What might appear as a small decision or inconsequential being may be the catalyst for a billion—no, trillion—futures. They may not be recognized as such until it is too late.
Here and now, it is too late.
Two months ago, something in the galaxy changed and reaped the future along with it. The damage is irreparable and incalculable.
“I need…” In his shock, Magnus’ eye drifts away from Curze. “I need to…”
Learn more.
Gather information.
Draw additional hypotheses.
Anything to understand this… mess.
Then, his gaze lands on Ahriman, who is approaching cautiously. An idea—a starting point—swiftly emerges.
“Ahriman,” Magnus calls out, “have there…” His voice wavers, then he clears his throat. “… have there been any odd reports from the other Legions? Any new wars? Or great losses suffered?”
Ahriman slows and comes to a stop mere meters away. His brows are knitted in worry, but he nonetheless answers:
“… There have been no such reports, M’Lord.”
Magnus stills, disbelieving. “The Crusade proceeds as usual?”
“Yes,” Ahriman confirms, subconsciously glancing at the nearby Sevatarion, a fellow First-Captain. “Compliance rates are stable. Expeditionary fleets have reported no considerable resistances or emergent xenos empires. Nor have any frontlines collapsed, or Legions been lost.”
Normal.
Everything is normal.
In most circumstances, Magnus would be glad but—
“That makes no sense,” he murmurs, wringing his hands together. “The galaxy should not be… calm.”
The future is gone. There should at least be some violence or chaos left in its wake—anything that might possibly explain it. Not… nothing.
In response, Ahriman hesitates. It is little more than a momentary twist of his expression.
But Magnus notices.
As does Curze, who immediately demands, “Speak, cretin!”
Ahriman bristles at the insult—but a sharp look from Magnus makes him comply. “There is… one matter of note,” he says slowly. “A recent report from the IXth Legion.”
“The Blood Angels?” Magnus scrunches his nose. To his knowledge, they should be on the other side of the galaxy, in southern Ultima. “What for?”
“They are withdrawing from the Crusade effort temporarily. Lord Sanguinius insisted upon it.”
“And his reason?”
Ahriman grimaces, as if pondering what words to speak first. Then, he explains, “Two months ago, the IXth and XIIIth Legions were scheduled for a joint campaign. Just as they were to convene for its start… Lord Guilliman reportedly suffered an injury and abandoned the campaign—to seek treatment on Terra.”
Magnus’ eye widens. Beside him, Curze bares his teeth.
It is a… frankly absurd revelation. Their dutiful brother Guilliman has never lost a battle—to the chagrin of many amongst them—nor has he ever sustained a grievous enough wound to warrant medical attention from their father on Terra.
“Lord Sanguinius completed the campaign in his absence,” Ahriman continues, “and has now chosen to follow him to Terra.”
Of course he did.
“Anything else?” Magnus inquires, voice strained.
Ahriman shakes his head. “No, M’Lord.”
“But…” Magnus bites his lip. “… there has to be more. Guilliman can’t have caused this.”
No matter how shocking the news of his injury, it is ultimately too insignificant.
Guilliman may be the perfect son—a reliable constant—but he is still only one of eighteen Primarchs. Useful but hardly that important. Certainly not a necessity whose loss would be mourned by the entire future.
Then what else is there? The rest of the galaxy remains the same.
Who else could have—
“Father,” Curze suddenly growls. “This is His doing!”
Magnus snaps toward him.
“What?”
In the split-second it takes to process Curze’s words, he is initially struck by the instinct to deny them.
Why would their father, who has always cautioned him in his studies of the psychic arts, ever do this? Destroy the future so thoroughly?
But—the more Magnus thinks…
… the claim has merit.
Their father does have the strength to cause this; there is no doubt about that. He is the most powerful psyker Mankind has ever produced and, through the Imperium, has influence over nearly the entire galaxy.
Even if He did not mean to induce the future’s death… it could have been an accident. A hidden experiment gone wrong. A failure, where His initial intent no longer matters.
Furthermore—
What other candidates are there? Who else has the power to shape the fate of every resident in the Milky Way—enough to condemn the entire future with a single act?
None but Him.
Magnus exhales, shoulders loosening. This is… acceptable.
“We must—”
But Curze is already moving, thudding footsteps heading for the pavilion’s exit. His firm intent to return to his flagship and confront their father on Terra coils around him in the Immaterium.
Despite casting some backward glances, Sevatarion and Talos follow him.
Magnus’ brow twitches. Then, he shouts, “Wait!”
His brother does not.
“We should traverse to Terra together!”
They both want answers—though admittedly, only Magnus’ intellectual curiosity remains intact, while his concern is dulling within his chest. If their father caused this, He must have noticed the future’s loss by now and acted accordingly; this situation will likely spiral no further.
Curze is the truly desperate one, unwilling to be slowed by anyone or anything. Magnus almost finds his intensity to be strange; he was driven mad by his visions… yet is so dependent on them. However, all seers—powerful ones especially—tend to have their peculiarities.
“Then, we may conduct additional experiments while en-route!” Magnus continues to urge, fully expecting to be rejected. “It will be an efficient use of our time!”
This, at last, makes Curze halt.
“… Experiments?”
Magnus blinks.
His brother is actually considering his offer?
At his silence, Curze turns to glare at him.
“Yes!” Magnus quickly says, seizing the chance. “With my intellect and your… remaining instincts of foresight, we may gain more answers!”
For a moment, Curze stares at him with true contemplation—a rarity—in his eyes.
“… Very well,” he accepts curtly.
Then, he returns to his path and exits the pavilion with his sons.
But Magnus knows he will be waiting—until both their Legions can depart together.
“Prepare the fleet,” he orders Ahriman. His hearts are beating with anticipation and lingering surprise. “We will make for Terra.”
His son bows. “At once, M’Lord.”
Their voyage begins swiftly.
Magnus wastes no time. His full attention is devoted to their pursuit of answers.
Ancient texts and artifacts are drawn forth from the deepest vaults of the Photep. His own personal library is not spared, cleared of even the tomes specially gifted to him by his father.
They are scoured for all knowledge on prescience. For any mention of this—the future’s death—ever occurring before in history. For any clues as to what piece of the future their father could have removed.
Alas, nothing is found.
Thus, Magnus moves on to true experiments.
At first, only he and his sons are truly involved. Curze—and what few Night Lords he tolerates enough to bring along—only observe from the sidelines, safe from the energies of the Immaterium.
But with each passing day—
“Test One: Failure. Total absence of future visibility.”
“Test Two: Failure. Visibility unstable. Contradictory and incoherent futures observed.”
“Test Three: Failure. Ritual collapse upon activation.”
“Test Four: Failure. Partial connection achieved, then collapsed.”
“Test Five: Failure. Scrying medium destroyed mid-ritual.”
—Curze’s attitude slowly changes.
By the sixteenth failed experiment, he is frequently popping out from the shadows to peek past unsuspecting shoulders at documents being written.
Many of Magnus’ sons, including his Rehati, are—understandably—unsettled by this constant hovering, but do their best to adjust. Unfortunately, Curze’s sons have taken to following his lead and often interrogate them as well.
Days become weeks, and—
“Enough!” Curze steps forth to interject. “This is not working.”
Kneeling on the floor of his pavilion, Magnus raises his head and pauses his work, red ink dripping down his fingertips. Unfinished sigils and runes are scattered around him.
“We simply need more time,” he says, calm and steady. Then, he adds a phrase their father often told him during his youth: “Failure is the mother of all success.”
Curze sneers and stomps a foot sharply. “No! We have wasted enough time! None of your ‘precise trials and tests’ have produced answers!”
At that, Magnus’ brow twitches, hard enough to pull at the bags beneath his eyes.
“And you have better ideas?”
To his surprise—
“Yes,” Curze declares. “We will spar.”
“‘Spar’?” Magnus repeats, straightening and settling onto his haunches. “You wish to spar?”
For a second, his brother averts his gaze. Then, as he fidgets and picks at his nails, he reveals, “My visions are useful for combat. Maybe—”
Ah!
“—if you are placed in a combat scenario,” Magnus’ eye brightens, and a grin stretches across his face, “your foresight might be reawoken.”
He quickly rises to his feet and strides close to Curze, his usual caution buried beneath his delight at this new lead. With a mere thought, his hands are clean once more—enough to clasp with his brother’s.
Curze freezes.
“That is ingenious, Brother!” Magnus happily praises. Absentmindedly, he notes how worryingly cold and rough Curze’s skin is; he should gift him some salves later. “A marvellous idea—truly inspired!”
Then, he releases Curze’s hands and steps back. His sons must be informed of this change in plans.
He glances around to find Ahriman standing motionless nearby, as a looming Sevatarion questions him relentlessly. Amon and Apophis are being similarly accosted by the only other Night Lords present, Shang and Talos. Not one of them looks comfortable.
“Ahriman!”
When his son stiffens, Magnus gestures him over.
Relief nearly wafts off Ahriman at the interruption. He hastily makes his excuses to Sevatarion—only for Sevatarion to follow him.
“M’Lord,” Ahriman greets, expression pinched. In his arms are multiple files and logbooks, which Sevatarion is still attempting to read over his shoulder—or is he attempting to nab one? “You requested my presence?”
“Cancel the ritual,” Magnus orders, carefully containing his amusement. His son will not appreciate sensing it. “Curze has suggested a new method of experimentation: he and I will be sparring.”
Ahriman stares, unblinking.
Behind him, Sevatarion’s brows raise at Curze, who scowls back.
“… As you wish, M’Lord,” Ahriman says at last. “I will have the Combat Arena cleared ahead for use, as well.”
Magnus nods his thanks.
With that, Ahriman turns on his heel and departs to fulfill his commands—but only after casting a suspicious glance at Curze. Then, he is speaking psychically to his brothers, both those inside the pavilion and far away in the Combat Arena.
Returning his gaze to Curze, Magnus flicks a hand toward the exit. “Shall we?”
His brother grumbles and begins walking without a word.
Magnus follows.
Behind them, Sevatarion catches his brothers’ attention with a sharp bark: “Talos! Shang!” A swift jerk of his head, and the three Night Lords become their entourage.
It is only once they are down the hall outside the pavilion that his Rehati finish unravelling the ritual and join them.
After a while, they enter the Combat Arena. It is already clear of any previous damage and Thousand Sons, who now occupy the observation decks in droves. The Rehati and Night Lords do the same.
Magnus and Curze take their places in the center.
“Ready, Brother?” Magnus carefully settles into a loose stance.
Curze grunts and lunges, claws outstretched.
Magnus narrowly parries the blow. In the subsequent second of recoil, he summons a gust of wind to blow Curze back and high into the air.
Twisting, Curze lands on his feet and hands with nary a sound. His back arches and legs flex, then he explodes forward.
Once more, Magnus defends himself. His forearm smacks aside Curze’s wrist, while his feet glide across the floor to dodge the follow-up strike.
His brother is fast—but not as… effortlessly so as Magnus remembers. There is always a fraction of delay in his movements. A small but unmistakable moment where he must decide what to do next, instead of already knowing it.
This continues for several minutes.
Until—
Curze shifts his weight. He aims for Magnus’ side, milliseconds before a gap emerges in his defense.
Magnus cannot avoid the blow. Not when his own momentum is against him.
Thus, he conjures a shield. Curze’s claws harmlessly skid off it.
Magnus steps back and retracts the barrier with a single gesture.
“You predicted my weakness,” he notes, lips curving into a pleased smile.
“… It was nothing,” his brother pants, then adds with a bitter sneer, “Barely a second.”
“Even that is something,” Magnus insists. He turns to catch Ahriman’s eyes, who is already typing away on his data-slate. “This experiment has promise.”
Dark eyes glare at him. But—
“Again.”
So they clash over and over.
For multiple days.
Across many sparring matches, each lasting for hours on end.
But Curze’s foresight shows no improvement. The most he is ever able to view are scant seconds into the future. Nothing more. Nothing truly important.
Eventually, they are forced to accept the futility of this endeavor.
They shift tactics. Again.
“The past is not dead,” Curze murmurs after their final spar. Against Magnus’ warning look, he begins nibbling at his fingernails—a horrid habit which has spilled far too much blood onto their logs. “We can try to find what He did.”
This interesting proposal is all that stops Magnus from grabbing his hands and forcing two layers of gloves onto them.
“Yes…” He tilts his head, humming. “If we search well enough… that could be possible.”
Their experiments continue. They scry—over and over—into the past, hoping to find the moment which doomed the future.
True to Curze’s hypothesis, the past is mostly clear. Mostly.
They can find yesterday’s meal and last year’s greatest war, but whenever they draw near to that specific time—over three months ago now—the past simply… muddies. Disperses into dust. As if it itself does not remember what truly happened.
The past is as useless as the future.
Oh, how Curze rages at the realization. He screams, cries, and lashes out at everyone—until only Magnus is capable of coming close to him safely.
It takes hours of pampering—and what a war it was to convince Curze to bathe and use skincare—before he is finally soothed. But even afterwards, he is bitter and glum, often brooding in the shadows or hiding in the vents.
Magnus understands. For a time, he even felt a similar anger. Weeks they have toiled for the truth, only for it to continuously slip through their fingers.
This entire situation is absurd.
Maddening, even.
But also fascinating. So much so that Magnus… cannot resist sharing it.
In between increasingly desperate experiments, he begins drafting dozens of communications to his closest brothers, Jaghatai and Perturabo. The former will understand the severity of this situation, while the latter will sympathize with his intrigue.
He has not sent them out just yet, but—
“What are you doing?”
Magnus nearly flinches as Curze’s head suddenly peers over his shoulder. Dark eyes scan the data-slate in his hands dubiously.
Today, they are in his study. They are supposed to be reviewing and organizing all the data they have collected so far, while their sons prepare another—likely hopeless—experiment.
Needless to say, Curze is not pleased by what he finds. “You imbecile!” he growls. “We must focus on our experiments! Not on… gossip!”
“My Legion’s withdrawal from the frontlines must be communicated with our brothers,” Magnus defends, shifting his data-slate from view. “Procedure for the Crusade cannot be ignored.”
“Do not lie to me.”
Curze crosses his arms with a haughty sniff. The sight both unnerves and charms Magnus, even after all their time together. He shares so many similarities with Fulgrim, now that he is bereft of his foresight.
“You are gossiping like a tittering elite.”
Magnus is about to refute—
—only for the doors to open.
Amon steps inside, only to still at what he finds: the two of them on the verge of a petty argument.
Magnus straightens in his seat. “Amon? Has the test been readied?”
His equerry slowly shakes his head. “No,” he says. “The Legion has received an order—from the Emperor.”
That makes Magnus pinch the bridge of his nose, his data-slate forgotten. “What is it? Does He wish for us to return to Obscurus and engage in a new campaign?”
In truth, he should not be so surprised. He and his sons can only ignore and refuse the orders of mortal commanders for so long before He inevitably notices.
Two of the Legions, the Ultramarines and Blood Angels, are already behind the frontlines, on Terra. A third—technically a fourth, if he counts Curze’s Night Lords—abandoning its post will not be accepted. The Crusade must proceed according to schedule.
Except—
“His Majesty has… requested our presence on Terra,” Amon answers softly, as if struggling to process his own words. “Every Legion is being recalled.”
What?
Slowly, Magnus turns to Curze.
They both share a look.
This summons cannot be a coincidence.
It is Him who caused this. There is no question about it anymore. Perhaps, He has realized some of His sons may have caught on to the future’s loss and now—
“He wishes to explain Himself,” Magnus guesses.
That will go far to quell any chaos or confusion before it can spread or fester. A good decision on His part.
“Or—He intends to lie,” Curze counters gruffly. “Give us empty platitudes until we cease our queries.”
Magnus sighs but does not deny the possibility.
Either way, the answer awaits on Terra.