Dukel's consciousness returned to the Inner Fire. Seated in his office, he pondered the revelations granted by Tzeentch. He knew exactly what was about to unfold. Near Guilliman's home world of Ultramar, the Plague War was imminent.
On the surface, it was Mortarion waging war against the Lord Regent of the Imperium.
In truth, it was Tzeentch's ploy to weaken Nurgle.
Just like the previous campaign had ultimately been a maneuver against Khorne, this war was another step in the Great Game of the Chaos Gods.
Dukel exhaled slowly, his thoughts heavy.
"The game of gods…"
Compared to their endless machinations, even the Primarchs were but pieces on the board. In the eyes of the Ruinous Powers, their only true adversaries were one another.
Now that Tzeentch had set his scheme into motion, disrupting it would be nigh impossible.
Not that Dukel intended to.
On the contrary, the Primarch saw this as an opportunity—an opening to drive a dagger deep into Nurgle's bloated hide.
From the Imperium's perspective, none of the Chaos Gods deserved even a modicum of mercy. If it were within his power, he would see them all eradicated twenty-two times over. But for now, he would simply turn the blade upon the one most vulnerable.
Sitting at his desk, Dukel contemplated how best to exploit this moment and ensure Nurgle paid an unbearable price.
"I wonder if this too is part of Tzeentch's plan…"
A knowing smirk crossed his face as his thoughts solidified into a strategy.
Summoning his closest lieutenants, Dukel awaited their arrival in silence. When Efilar entered, she bowed in respect before speaking.
"Your Highness, how many have completed the transformation?" he asked.
Efilar responded without hesitation. "Including those nearing completion, there are 222 in total."
"Inform the Mechanicus. Have them accelerate the process. In the coming war, I require the full strength of my progeny. We need more Doom Slayers."
A flicker of concern passed over Efilar's face. "Another battle looms, Your Highness? What kind of war demands such urgent reinforcements?"
Dukel chuckled. "No, my dear. This war is unlike those before it. This time, it is not the Imperium that suffers. This time, we are the executioners."
A slow smile spread across Efilar's face. "As you command."
With a formal bow, she departed.
Once she was gone, Shivara stepped forward. "Your Highness, will the Sisters not have a place in this fight? We, too, wish to stand beside you."
Dukel gave her a reassuring nod. "Of course, I require every strength at my disposal." He paused briefly before adding, "Inform Dante. Tell him to prepare. We depart soon."
Shivara's lips curled into a satisfied smile. "As you will it, Your Highness."
She turned on her heel and left with light steps, elated by his acknowledgment.
Little Sanguinius' soul still required Dukel's assistance to mend. Until his strength was fully restored, his protection remained paramount. Thus, for this expedition, the Blood Angels' fleet would set sail alongside them.
Before their departure, Dukel made one last stop—Macragge's Glory, to bid farewell to Guilliman.
"Brother, it's time for us to part ways."
Guilliman's expression darkened with a tinge of sorrow. "So soon? I had hoped our time together would last longer."
Despite his centuries of life, separation never became easier.
Still, he knew better than to cling to fleeting moments.
The two Primarchs embraced in a brief but firm farewell.
Dukel smiled. "We will meet again soon."
Guilliman sighed, nodding. "Yes. Under the Throne's watchful gaze."
Dukel smirked. "No, brother. It will be even sooner."
Guilliman raised a brow. "And when would that be?"
Dukel tapped the burnished eagle upon his armor's shoulder, its twin heads alight with ethereal fire. "You will know when the time comes."
Guilliman shook his head. "You sound more and more like our father."
Dukel's expression grew solemn. "I do not intend to be cryptic. But know this, brother… no matter the war's outcome, you will bear the burden."
He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.
"Before I leave, let me ask you something."
The psychic resonance between them intensified, ensuring only they—and the spirit bound to Dukel's blade—could hear what came next.
"Guilliman, what are we?" Dukel's words hung in the air. "Are we men? Demigods worshipped by mortals? That is where it ends, does it not? No matter how much power we wield, in the grand scheme of the galaxy, we are insignificant."
He continued before Guilliman could respond. "The Dark Powers delude themselves into believing they are true gods. To them, the Great Game is all that matters, and their only true adversaries are each other. That is their greatest weakness."
Dukel stepped back, his eyes burning with certainty. "Remember my words, Guilliman. Learn to use everything at your disposal."
And with that, he turned and left, his footsteps echoing through the chamber.
Guilliman remained still, his mind churning with the weight of those words. He wished to call out, to demand further explanation—but his brother was already gone.
Calgar approached from behind. "My Lord, Dukel has departed. It's time to return."
The regent gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. "Very well."
Calgar hesitated. "Also… I have received word. Felix has returned. You may wish to see him."
"Make way for Decimus Felix! Make way for the Lord of the Eastern March! The Lord of Vespato approaches!"
The herald's voice rang through the halls as Felix strode purposefully toward the palace.
Guilliman stood alone against the vast expanse of the void, his gaze fixed not on the stars, but on a glowing hololithic display. A single world was rendered before him in luminous detail, demanding his full attention.
Once more, Felix felt a strange sense of isolation in the Primarch's presence.
"Felix, it is good to see you." Guilliman's voice resonated through the chamber.
"Would you still say that if I disagreed with you?"
"Perhaps," Guilliman allowed himself a small smile. "You are not required to agree with everything I do, my son. Do what you believe is right. That alone would please me."
Felix hesitated, confusion flickering across his face. No matter how well he believed he understood the Primarch, Guilliman's thoughts remained a mystery. If their roles were reversed—if he commanded an officer as insubordinate as himself—he would have undoubtedly punished them without hesitation.
Felix had long since abandoned his own humanity. Guilliman, however, had never truly been human to begin with.
"Why won't you allow me to destroy that blasphemous daemonhost?" Felix asked. "Do you intend to interrogate it?"
Guilliman did not immediately answer. Instead, he turned his full attention to Felix, regarding him with an intensity that seemed to weigh upon the very core of his being.
"What is the current situation in the Eastern Fringe? Can you bring it under control?" Guilliman finally asked.
"Shall I speak freely?"
"When have I ever asked otherwise?"
"It is a disaster, father." Felix exhaled sharply. He had experienced firsthand the burden of leadership in merely one sector—how much heavier must the load be for a Primarch? "The entire region is in chaos. Every world."
"Though Mortarion's forces are advancing, they have yet to inflict significant damage in the east. The Sothan Alliance, however, is reeling from devastating Tyranid incursions and a renewed Ork onslaught."
"The Necrons have also begun stirring. Their tomb worlds awaken, and their soulless legions march against both xenos and Imperium alike. Pirates plague the void. And worst of all, the nobility is hopelessly corrupt. The military forces they claim to command exist only on parchment—bled dry by decades of self-indulgence. They hold no fear of Imperial authority."
Guilliman's expression darkened. Felix bowed his head.
"Forgive me, father, for delivering such ill news."
"There is no need to apologize. Truth is a rare commodity."
Felix hesitated before continuing. "If I may be so bold—I believe you should request the assistance of the Second Primarch. You should both go to the Eastern Fringe. We do not have time for diplomacy. With His Highness Dukel's methods, he will enact swift and absolute purges. A single example will bring the rest into line."
"No. No, that is precisely why I did not keep my brother at my side." Guilliman shook his head. "The situation is dire, but not yet beyond reclamation."
"Dukel does not concern himself with nuance. He sees corruption and eliminates all in its shadow, whether guilty or not. Politics is not so simple."
"His purpose is war, not governance, and that will not change."
"And we must not be selfish, my son. The battles of this galaxy will never cease, and we fight only for the briefest moments of respite. My brothers have their own wars—the Tyranids, the Necrons, the Daemons, the Orks. The Imperium spans a million worlds, and we cannot always rely on others to save us."
Guilliman turned his gaze outward, as if he could see entire sectors unraveling before him. He sighed. "But you are right. This is not beyond saving."
Felix nodded slowly, considering the Primarch's words. "Then it is time to interrogate the Inquisitor possessed by the daemon. Perhaps he holds the knowledge to spare millions of lives."
Guilliman studied him. "Since you are here, will you bear witness? Perhaps seeing the interrogation will put your concerns to rest."
"Will he be destroyed afterward?" Felix asked warily.
"Of course. I swear it. You need not fear—he poses no threat to me."
Together, they approached the chamber.
The prisoner stood restrained within a hexagrammatic ward, flanked by battle-ready Custodians. Though the mortal shell of Inquisitor Reimer remained, it was a mere vessel for the daemon within.
Guilliman stepped forward. "Reimer. Steel yourself. You are still within your own flesh."
The only response was the daemon's mocking laughter.
"Give up. He is gone," it sneered. "His soul is mine—an offering to the Lord of Change. Past, present, future—it is all the same. He was always meant to be mine, as you were, little mortal leader."
"Daemon of Tzeentch," Guilliman intoned, drawing the Emperor's Sword—a massive blade wreathed in golden fire. He pointed it at the abomination. "Your arrogance reminds me of Fateweaver."
"And your fate shall be no different."
The flames leapt across the chains binding the daemon host, searing its tainted flesh. The chamber echoed with its agonized howls.
Guilliman's grip on the hilt of the Emperor's Sword tightened. The chamber was tense, the air thick with the acrid stench of warp-tainted smoke.
"You miserable spawn of corruption," the daemon spat, its voice a twisted blend of hatred and mockery. "The great Tzeentch is rising. You are his pawn, as are your brothers. Can't you feel it? I will tell you nothing."
Guilliman's expression remained cold, unreadable. "You will." He raised the Emperor's Sword slightly, letting its radiant light dance across the daemon's shifting form. "This blade can unmake you, tear your very essence from the warp itself. There is nothing you can do to stop it."
The daemon howled, its wretched voice filled with pain and fury. "Never!"
"Tell me," Guilliman demanded. "What is Mortarion's plan?"
"I refuse!"
"Speak!" His voice thundered, reverberating through the chamber like a declaration of judgment. The sheer force of his will sent shockwaves through the room, rattling the Grey Knights standing guard.
The daemon writhed, its form convulsing as black fire erupted from its limbs. The stench of burning corruption filled the air, thick and suffocating.
Guilliman took a step forward, intent on commanding the Grey Knights to invoke the creature's true name, to strip it of its strength and force the answers from its tormented soul. But he hesitated.
Dukel's words echoed in his mind. A reminder, subtle yet piercing.
Every Primarch possessed genius beyond mortal comprehension. Guilliman was no exception. He had been so focused on extracting information that he had failed to consider the bigger picture.
"You claim all is according to your master's plan." His voice was calmer now, calculated. "That means your appearance here is no accident."
The daemon trembled, but a twisted grin formed on its warped visage. "Nothing escapes the designs of the Changer of Ways." Its voice carried the cadence of madness, reverence, and malice intertwined.
"Then you had a purpose in coming here," Guilliman mused. "Your presence was meant to reveal something about Mortarion. To guide me toward a particular course of action."
A pause. Then, the daemon chuckled darkly.
Guilliman's eyes narrowed. "Tzeentch does not waste effort on unworthy prey. If my brother is merely a piece on the board, then the true target lies beyond him."
The daemon exhaled a sound that might have been laughter, or perhaps the death rattle of some forsaken soul.
"If our goals align," Guilliman continued, "why resist?"
The daemon's twisted form stilled. Black ichor dripped from its shifting limbs, and within moments, feathers sprouted from its flesh. The mark of Tzeentch was unmistakable.
"Son of the Cursed," it murmured. "There is no need to guess at my master's intentions. They are beyond your comprehension."
Guilliman allowed a small, knowing smile. "Then my suspicions are correct."
The daemon's many eyes flickered with malice. "Ask, Son of the Damned. You have nine questions to answer. As is the number of Tzeentch."
Guilliman smiled. "It seems that you can only answer my questions about Mortarion. Then tell me where he is first."
He began to ask the questions he had prepared. In Mortarion's Chamber of Time, where all clocks had stopped, the Daemon Primarch was communicating with his estranged son, Typhus, through the dark miracle of the Mycelium of Despair.
Mortarion did not truly wish to talk. Every word Typhus spoke grated against him.
As his genetic father, Mortarion loathed this son who had betrayed him.
"You cannot go to the Eastern Fringe, Mortarion. I have received higher orders." Typhus suppressed his pain. Despite being the First Captain, he showed little deference to his Primarch.
"You are wounded. You are afraid." Mortarion noted the grievous injuries marring his son's form, his words carrying the unmistakable pleasure of a father reveling in his wayward child's suffering.
"Fear has no part in this, my gene-father." Typhus ignored the malice. "The war of the gods has begun anew. You must answer our master's call. You must return."
"No! My grand plan nears completion!" Mortarion snarled. "Guilliman is walking into my trap. I will end him!"
"Listen, Mortarion. I do not come as your son or your First Captain. I come as a messenger of the Plague Lord. The Lord of Change disrupts the cycle of decay and rebirth. Put aside your petty vendetta. Our god commands it!"
Typhus's plea only stoked the Primarch's fury.
"How dare you?! How dare you speak to me as if I were a child to be chastised?" Mortarion's face twisted in rage. "Where are your orders, Typhus? Did Nurgle Himself emerge from His decrepit mansion to tell you? Enough of your lies! I have heard nothing from Him! The Loving Father has not commanded me! I will not be controlled by you again!"
"This is no lie, father. I have felt the signs." Despite Mortarion's wrath, Typhus's tone softened.
"That is all? I reject your authority, First Captain!"
He spat the title like a curse. His vast wings unfurled, releasing a putrid stench that filled the chamber.
"You are a venomous snake, Typhus! You always have been!"
Typhus sighed, disappointment thick in his voice. "You overestimate your worth. Arrogance blinds you. You have crossed the line, and the Loving Father will not be pleased. The greatest wrath comes from the gentlest hands. Do not provoke—"
Before he could finish, Mortarion erupted in fury. Purple and green fumes billowed from his respirator as he swung the Sickle of Silence, slicing through the mycelial conduit linking them.
The severance sent a surge of raw power back through the link, and across the Immaterium, Typhus convulsed in agony.
"I am Mortarion, Lord of Death! Plaguebringer! The Eternally Enduring!" Mortarion's roar shook the chamber.
From within a central glass prison, the tormented spirit of his long-dead xenos foster father recoiled in terror.
"No one commands me!"
His rage erupted as an explosion of psychic filth, scouring everything around him. He trembled with fury, but it soon gave way to cold calculation.
His plan mattered more than any quarrel with his wayward son.
"Thirteen. Thirteen. Thirteen."
Mortarion muttered to himself, tracing invisible patterns in the air. Again and again, numerology returned the same answer.
"A truly remarkable number."
He had always placed great stock in numbers. Long ago, before the secrets of the Warp were fully known, numerology had even led him to uncover the Emperor's Webway project.
"What are you doing, Mortarion?" a voice intruded.
He looked up to see Ku'gath Plaguefather, Nurgle's most favored Great Unclean One.
"I am consulting the grand art of numerology. It will deliver us victory."
"Ah, excellent." Ku'gath's response was half-hearted, his sagging face laden with sorrow.
"You chose wisely in targeting Guilliman instead of Dukor. Another Great Unclean One was utterly obliterated. He did not even have time to scream."
A thick, greasy tear rolled down Ku'gath's bloated cheek. "Dukor is a cruel beast. Everyone should avoid him."
"Is that so?" Mortarion cast another glance at his numbers, a strange smile playing at his lips.
"I am not weak, Ku'gath. Quite the opposite. In my eyes, thirteen is the true strength."
Even as he spoke, he turned his divination toward Dukor.
"Twenty-two?!"
The result startled him. The number pulsed with ominous power.
"What? What does it mean?" Ku'gath asked, surprised by his reaction.
"Nothing. Pay it no mind." Mortarion dismissed it, then changed the subject. "How fares the Loving Father? What does He do while His cherished children are annihilated?"
"Ah, yes, that is why I came." Ku'gath's voice trembled.
"The Loving Father grieves. Upon sensing the loss, He has sealed Himself away once more. Just as when Lymphas was destroyed. It is a tragedy, Mortarion. We cannot stand idly by."
Ku'gath wept openly, his tears rolling down his corpulent form, seeping through his festering flesh and exposed entrails before pooling at his feet. The vile liquid rose rapidly, submerging Mortarion's lower body.
"We must act. We cannot allow this to continue," Mortarion agreed. But then, realization struck him.
"You said the Loving Father is 'seeing no one'?"
"Yes, why?" Ku'gath asked, still weeping.
"Nothing."
Mortarion turned and flung open the chamber doors. A flood of rancid tears poured out like a river.
"Apologies, Ku'gath. I have urgent business to attend to."
Without another word, he spread his fly-ridden wings and soared over the rotting swamps and gardens of Nurgle's domain. He avoided the sight of all daemons, heading toward a hidden sanctuary deep within the Garden.
This place was unlike the rest. It was untouched by decay, filled with vibrant life, the air itself invigorating.
A veiled woman sat amidst the flourishing greenery—a presence that had no place in Nurgle's Garden.
Though her face remained concealed, her beauty was undeniable.
It was not beauty in a worldly sense, but an ideal—beauty in its purest, most conceptual form. All words of praise for life itself seemed fitting when applied to her.
Anyone who beheld her would love her instinctively, as naturally as they loved their own existence.
"Mortarion, what are you doing here? Aren't you afraid your master will punish you?"
The woman frowned upon seeing the Primarch, her voice sharp with rebuke.
"Honored goddess, I come to bargain." Mortarion remained composed despite the scolding. With a grace uncharacteristic of his hulking, plague-ridden form, he executed a perfect bow. A demigod of ruin, yet in this moment, he displayed humility.
"I seek to trade a secret for a vial of antidote."
"An antidote?" The woman chuckled, as though he had spoken madness. "The favored son of Nurgle asks me for an antidote? Your body is steeped in corruption—poison is your lifeblood. It cannot harm you."
Her piercing gaze darkened. "What you truly need purged is the poison in your soul. Your mind has long since rotted, and the decay has festered into a sickness that no cure can mend."
She turned away. "Leave, son of Nurgle. You will find nothing of use here."
Mortarion remained unshaken. "Do not be so hasty, noble goddess. Are you not curious about what I offer? Perhaps it is the very thing you have long sought."
The goddess sighed, rubbing her forehead as if weary of his presence. Yet, despite her apparent reluctance, she indulged him. "Very well. Speak. What could you possibly offer me?"
"Twenty-two. The one who bears this number."
At his words, she froze. Then, like a storm surging to life, she rose to her feet, her gaze locking onto the Plague Lord with sudden intensity. The very air around her trembled, the sheer weight of her presence pressing down upon him like the crushing force of creation itself.
Life's boundless energy bore down upon the Lord of Death, yet he did not bow. He stood firm, the respirator affixed to his face concealing the smile that tugged at his lips.
"What do you want?" she finally asked, her voice low, wary.
A shiver of satisfaction ran through Mortarion's plague-ridden form.
"The poison I seek to purge is that which I serve," he answered, his voice steady with intent. "It is burned into my soul, bound to my very essence—an affliction that chains me to the will of another."
His rasping breath echoed in the silence.
"I seek release from the Chains of Decay."