"There is no true death—only transformation. Whether you seek it or not, Konrad, I forgive you."
—"If even a sinner like me can be forgiven… then what justice remains, Father?"
With a grim smile carved into his pallid features, the Primarch raised high the severed head of a thousand-year veteran of the Black Legion. Blood dripped steadily from his gauntleted fingers, pattering onto the battlefield below.
The arrival of Konrad Curze, Primarch of the Night Lords, cast a pall of dread across the field.
Even Horus and Lorgar—traitors and warlords in their own right—visibly tensed. For while Curze may not have been the most skilled warrior among the Emperor's sons, he wielded fear as his blade. And none wielded it better.
None could truly discern his intentions. Many believed he stood at the precipice of a killing frenzy. But in that moment, Curze was lost in memory—reliving his final conversation with the Emperor, ten thousand years past.
He had died long ago, not at the hand of the assassin sent to slay him, but by his own will. He chose his end, delivering judgment upon himself for the horrors he had wrought.
Curze had seen the darkest recesses of mankind. He was their mirror and executioner. Yet contrary to the image burned into Imperial lore, Curze had not always been blood-hungry.
When he first ruled Nostramo, the world of his arrival, his justice was exacting but measured. Criminals were punished harshly, but the laws he crafted were not cruel. For the innocent, he was a protector—almost benevolent.
In those early years, Curze reduced the crime of Nostramo to near-zero, creating a world governed not by hope, but by the certainty of retribution. To achieve this, he split himself—one part just ruler by day, the other a shadowy executioner by night.
But when the Great Crusade called him back to the Emperor's side, that division grew deeper. The burden of prophecy, the vision of the Imperium's doom, and his own actions tore him apart.
So began the war within: Konrad Curze versus the Night Haunter.
His duality became a madness more potent than any psychic torment. Curze—the man who punished only the guilty—was slowly eclipsed by the Haunter, who reveled in killing.
That inner struggle continued until his final breath.
And when the assassin came, he did not resist.
He had spoken his truth:
"I punish the guilty… as your Emperor now seeks to punish me. Death means little. Righting wrongs—that is what matters."
Curze did not move. He let the blade fall.
At that moment, it was not the assassin who slew the Night Haunter—but Konrad Curze himself, pronouncing judgment on the part of him that had fallen beyond redemption.
His soul returned to the Golden Throne, where even the Emperor did not chain him. Yet Curze remained, willingly. Ten millennia of self-imposed exile, meditating on guilt and justice.
It was not penance wasted.
He emerged changed—stronger in spirit and form. Not absolved, but whole.
Now, on the field of war, Curze lifted his head and opened his arms. A breath escaped his lips—so soft as to be nearly imperceptible.
Yet even that subtle motion sent a ripple of tension through the traitor ranks.
Horus and Lorgar said nothing, but their eyes burned with wariness. They knew their brother—knew what he was capable of.
Though Curze had never fallen to Chaos, his acts had long surpassed the depravity of its followers.
And then, without warning, the battlefield dimmed. Day fell into midnight. The light itself recoiled, swallowed whole in an instant.
Curze had once envied Corvus Corax for being favored by shadow.
But now he had become the night.
Visibility collapsed. Even the flame-lit eyes of the Primarchs could not pierce this darkness. It was not mere absence of light—but an oppressive, conscious void.
Lorgar, the Arch-Heretic, raised his scepter. In his palm, he summoned a fireball of warp-born energy, its crimson glow a small defiance against the overwhelming black. His gaze swept the dark, every sense alert.
He could no longer tell where Curze might strike from.
Then—he heard it.
Footsteps. Heavy, yet deceptively light. Measured. Controlled. Primarch steps.
Someone was moving toward him. Fast.
They would meet in seconds.
Lorgar inhaled sharply, focusing. His psychic incantation built steadily, ready to be unleashed the instant the shadow struck.
But deep down, he knew:
No light could save him from this night.
If the figure approaching was an enemy, then he would meet the full, unrestrained fury of Lorgar's wrath.
At last, the sound of footsteps echoed from a few meters away. A shadowed figure slowly emerged from the shroud of darkness.
Lorgar narrowed his eyes, straining to see through the veil. The man was tall—equal to his own stature—but emaciated, skin pale as bone, hair black as pitch. Twin iron-forged wings extended from his back, like the remnants of a tortured seraph.
He stood motionless, silent in the gloom, watching Lorgar with the morbid stillness of a dying raven.
"Corvus?!" Lorgar gasped in disbelief, his voice betraying a rare crack of fear. "Why are you here?!"
Without hesitation, the Word Bearer Primarch hurled the fireball he'd been conjuring straight at the figure—and turned on his heel, fleeing into the dark.
Lorgar knew the chances of the Raven Lord—Corvus Corax—being here were astronomically low. But they weren't zero.
He couldn't afford to gamble. The pain in his neck still lingered from their last encounter.
"That bastard…"
Horus growled under his breath as he waved his hand to dispel the residual psychic flames Lorgar had left behind.
He watched his brother flee with undisguised contempt. Though he suspected it had been some sort of psychic illusion, Horus was disgusted that a Primarch—one supposedly tempered by faith and fanaticism—could be so easily broken by fear.
Then, the light around him began to dim.
Not gradually—but with a sudden, unnatural swiftness, the way twilight plunges into midnight in a cursed dream. Vision faltered. Even the superhuman sight of a demigod could not pierce this darkness.
Horus stiffened. He recognized this tactic.
Curze had come.
First, a flicker—barely more than a whisper of motion—brushed past the edge of his perception on his right flank. He spun. Nothing.
Then again, this time to his left—lighter than a feather, quicker than thought. Still, nothing.
He lifted his gaze, narrowing his eyes as the shadows parted for just a breath.
A pale face emerged—wreathed in black. Void-like eyes stared back at him, devoid of warmth, but heavy with terrible foresight.
"Horus... you should have died long ago."
Konrad Curze's voice echoed from all directions.
"We all deserve death. So why are you still here?" Horus snarled, his voice low and harsh.
Curze only smiled. "No comment."
Then, like a nightmare dissolving into vapor, the Night Haunter vanished once more.
But Horus knew his brother. He leaned back against the wall, bracing for a strike.
Too late.
Curze emerged from the wall itself, his claws forged from necrosteel, and drove them into Horus's lower back.
"I only terrorized the wicked. And they branded me a monster. But you, Horus… you betrayed the Imperium. You extinguished the last hope of mankind," Curze hissed in his ear.
"My name was used to frighten children into obedience. But your name has bathed stars in blood."
Curze's claws pushed deeper, seeking to pierce armor and bone alike.
"Why, brother? Why must I cower in the shadows of shame while you still walk freely among the stars?" he growled, voice trembling with restrained fury.
With a roar, Horus twisted, grabbing the claws and—after a brief struggle—tossed Curze across the ground. But when he surged forward to strike back, the Night Haunter was gone.
"I will atone for my sins," Horus snarled into the darkness. "Don't you see it, Konrad? With every act, I carve a better path for humanity. I will change the future—no matter the cost."
"How noble."
The voice came again, softly mocking.
Horus fell silent.
There was no reasoning with Curze. The son of Nostramo saw only guilt, even where none existed.
But Horus remained resolute. He believed—believed in redemption, in purpose. In the fire that would forge a brighter age.
Then, he heard another sound. Emerging once again from the dark, a silhouette appeared—hazy, indistinct.
The figure was shorter than a Primarch—only about two meters in height. But as he came into the light, Horus flinched.
The man's features were his own.
Not as he was now, but as he had been ten thousand years ago. Before the Heresy. Before he left Cthonia. Before he had even met the Emperor.
"You again," Horus muttered. Then he sneered. "A new trick, Koz?"
The figure answered calmly, "No. I am you. You see me because of the fear you bury in your soul."
"Fear?" Horus chuckled darkly. "You know nothing of fear. I am fear incarnate."
"Then why do you see me?" the figure asked, before its form twisted—melting into Curze once more.
"Do you know, Horus? For a long time, I envied you. You, Sanguinius, Corax, Lion El'Jonson, Guilliman, Dorn... you were chosen, beloved, guided," Curze said, stepping closer.
"I was not."
"When my life pod crashed on Nostramo, I was buried deep beneath the crust. I had no mentor. No guiding hand. I crawled out of the darkness like a beast."
"I was starving. And the first thing I encountered was a Nostraman criminal. So I ate him—his flesh, his mind, his memories."
"I saw what he'd done. The murders. The betrayals. He even killed his father for a woman."
"But the most amusing thing?"
Curze's expression curled into a sick grin.
"He thought himself justified."
Curze's pale visage hovered inches from Horus, but still he did not strike.
"You all believe you're justified," he whispered, jabbing a finger toward his brother's chest. "You see yourselves as noble. Even you, Horus."
"No," Horus shook his head, "I never thought that."
"Don't lie," Curze snapped. "I can see you."
"Remember Kajedon? Your adoptive father. You murdered a Tech-Priest of the Mechanicus, and the Adeptus retaliated. Your gang was destroyed. Your father was killed. But it wasn't your fault, was it?"
Curze's body twisted again—growing larger, more imposing. Now he towered, matching Horus in strength and stature.
This was Horus, the Warmaster. The man he used to be.
"I tried diplomacy with the Interrex. But I had to kill them. Not my fault—Erebus manipulated events."
"I betrayed the Imperium. I slew the Emperor. But that wasn't my fault either."
"I meant well. It was others who corrupted the vision. I never failed. I am Horus Lupercal. The favored son. The Warmaster."
Curze spun, arms wide, laughing with cruel mockery.
Horus stared at the grotesque mimicry of himself, dancing like a madman in the dark. And for a fleeting moment, sorrow entered his gaze.
"Come on, Horus, say it with me," the doppelgänger sneered, voice laced with mockery. "I am Horus Lupercal. None of this is my fault. I am Horus."
"Shut up!"
The real Horus bellowed, his rage echoing through the darkness. "You know nothing of me—nothing of the future I fight for!"
"Oh? Then tell me," Curze whispered, suddenly inches from Horus' face. His pallid visage hovered close, those void-black eyes drilling into him—searching for truth, or weakness. "Why did you fall to Chaos?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"Was it truly because those closest to you betrayed you? Was it truly the machinations of the gods?"
Curze's tone dropped, each word deliberate.
"Or… was it because a daemon already lived within your heart?"
"I SAID SHUT UP!" Horus roared.
He brought the Worldbreaker crashing down toward Curze's face, the great hammer trailing psychic heat and raw fury.
But the Night Haunter had already vanished—like mist in a gust.
Pfft! — A wet, tearing sound snapped through the air.
Horus grunted in agony as a razor claw erupted through his side. Curze had reappeared beside him, slipping through the shadows as if born of them.
The talons of Nostraman steel twisted, grinding through ceramite and flesh. Blood—Primarch blood—spilled freely from the wound.
Curze leaned in close, whispering as the claws dug deeper.
"You became arrogant, complacent... a gullible fool who lost his edge. Do you know why?"
He turned the claws slowly, eliciting another growl of pain from Horus.
"Because you're afraid."
Curze's voice was a cold, intimate whisper in his ear now. "Afraid you're wrong. Afraid you'll make the wrong call. Afraid you're not good enough. So you buried it. You smothered it in excuses. It was Erebus. It was the Warp. It was fate."
"You call yourself fearless," he murmured, "but the only one you've ever feared… is yourself."
Horus, still gripping his hammer and reeling from the pain, clenched his teeth. The whisper lingered in the air—like the chill of Nostramo itself.
…
TN:
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