Conrad Curze moved swiftly and silently through the darkness of the Nightfall.
He had been separated from this ship for too long. By all reason, he should have felt nostalgia—but he did not. His mind was wholly consumed by frustration, astonishment, confusion, and questions, leaving no room for anything else. What he needed now, urgently, was an answer.
He knew the one qualified to give him that answer was on the bridge.
And so, Conrad Curze strode unimpeded toward it. He made no effort to conceal himself, yet every soul who passed him by acted as though he were invisible. This would have been unthinkable in the past—on the Nightfall, anyone who laid eyes on a Primarch would react immediately, whether with reverence or terror. But… this was not his Nightfall.
On his Nightfall, the whispers in the dark did not foster such ease and tranquility. Astartes and mortals did not coexist so peacefully. The corridors lacked the "decorations" that should have been ubiquitous in the domain of the Night Lords, and from some cabins even came the faint strains of soothing, melodic music… This was the Nightfall, yet it felt utterly unfamiliar.
Still, he was absolutely certain it was the Nightfall—only now, this grand lady had been remade in another's image. He needed no proof or logic for this; it was an instinctive certainty, for this was Conrad Curze's domain, an alternate possibility spun from the threads of his memory. Though he did not hold sole control here, ensuring his presence went unnoticed was a trivial feat.
No one perceived him. No one stopped him. Conrad Curze reached the bridge without hindrance—but just as he prepared to force his way in and demand answers from this ship's current master, he hesitated. He had paid little attention to his surroundings on the way here, yet a Primarch's senses had still registered much. He had caught traces of an undercurrent—anger, shame, disgust, worry. The crew moved with purpose, but this was not the readiness of a Legion preparing for war. It puzzled him, if only slightly.
That small confusion was resolved in an instant—his domain responded to him, and he knew instinctively where, or rather when, he stood:
The moment in his life when he had ordered the destruction of Nostramo, his own homeworld.
He understood the reasoning behind that decision and felt no regret. But now, fresh from failing three times in a mortal's life—specifically, a trial where they had exchanged roles, and Conrad Curze had undeniably lost—he found himself baffled. He wanted to see how this mortal, who had navigated a path even a Primarch had stumbled on, would handle this.
And so, he chose to slip soundlessly through the bridge doors—without them ever opening. Conrad Curze had already deduced that this place, though eerily real, was not the material world. Moreover, this was his domain. It would not restrict him as it did the Nightfall's current master. With the right tricks, passing through solid matter like a warp entity was no harder than ensuring no one noticed him.
In the past, such an ability would have elated Conrad Curze. Without question, it would have made him the perfect monster, the true Night Haunter. But now, it meant nothing. He had too many questions.
In his own life, he had enforced justice through cruelty and fear—yet in this mortal's shoes, that had proven futile. Unintentionally, she had shown him another path, but Conrad Curze could not see it clearly.
How did it work? What principles did it follow? What results would it yield? Could it be applied universally—or, bluntly, would it even function on Nostramo, or within the Eighth Legion?
Bearing these questions, Conrad Curze glided through the darkness like a part of it. The bridge's layout was familiar, as were some of the faces: members of the Kyroptera, though they now seemed to have additional duties; a squad of Atramentar, his personal guard, fully armored and helmed, though Conrad could still pick out individuals by subtle tells; and finally, the "Primarch" at their center—a role filled, under this domain's rules, by a mortal.
From the shadows, Conrad studied the girl who had dragged him into this vexing trial, and once more arrived at the same conclusion: she was young, small, frail—utterly unremarkable in a Primarch's eyes. Yet somehow, she had commanded the Eighth Legion's loyalty. Though this was but an illusion woven from memory, the girl at its heart had undeniably earned the love of his sons.
That proves nothing. Legionaries are gene-forged to obey their Primarch, no matter what form he takes, Conrad thought venomously. Yet as he did, a complicated emotion stirred:
Yes… no matter what their Primarch is. Even if it's a mortal. Or a madman who hides in the dark, whispering to corpses.
For reasons he couldn't fully grasp, he found himself hoping this mortal had something to justify his sons' regard. Even if he still believed most of them were scum and villains.
He loathed them. Hated them. Even wished them dead. But the cruelest truth was that the gene-bond could not be severed. They were his sin, his—
Conrad Curze refused to dwell further, forcing his attention back to the scene before him.
He was close now, and made no effort to hide. This was his domain, and all within it obeyed his will—ignoring him, save for one: the "Primarch" at the center of her guard, a mortal girl no older than twenty, standing at five feet two, slight even by human standards.
Yet she only looked at him, offering no further reaction. Their eyes met, acknowledging one another, but no words passed between them.
She wore no power armor, instead clad in a fitted Nostraman-style gown—likely because Conrad's memory held no concept of "Primarch-sized armor for a mortal," an absurd notion that would have looked even more ridiculous than this. Her features were soft, pretty by mortal measures; her skin lacked the sickly pallor of Nostramo, instead a warm hue even in the ship's near-total darkness. Her short, sunset-orange hair and amber-irised eyes, catching what little light there was like distant stars, made her bright—clashing starkly with the gloom of her attire.
That dissonance is only natural, Conrad mused. She doesn't belong to Nostramo. She shouldn't have anything to do with this damned world. And with that, he realized, inexplicably, that he had begun to feel a shred of respect for her.
He knew her name: Fujimaru Ritsuka, written in a dead ancient tongue, its age lending it mystique—or so the Emperor, his father, claimed. Conrad cared little. He was already dead.
A condemned soul, dredged from death's grip by the Emperor, bound by a mortal girl's invocation of an old name into this farcical trial—and now, the one who had lost was him. The absurdity of it all made the details irrelevant. He only wanted to know why.
He watched patiently as the illusionary equerry reported his findings to the illusionary Primarch. The speaker was Shen, one of the few sons he disliked less, which brought a strange twinge of… something. Perhaps because this Shen had once held the same role.
He knew the report's contents by heart and paid it no mind, focusing instead on Shen's face—pale, unhelmed, every scar identical to Conrad's memory (of course, this was his illusion), yet somehow different in ways he couldn't articulate.
Shen's report was thorough but brief. As his voice faded, silence reclaimed the bridge. Conrad, like all present, waited for the mortal girl's judgment—and she did not keep them waiting:
"Summon Jago 'Scrawny' Scoletech of the 45th Company," Fujimaru Ritsuka ordered at once. "I want to hear his testimony directly."
Shen nodded, but not as sharply as he should have. Conrad noted the delay with displeasure. Under his command, Shen would never have dared hesitate. A Primarch's word was law.
Another difference—and Shen's hesitation had a reason. The girl noticed it too, but her response was not reprimand:
"You have doubts, Shen. Voice them, as always. Convince me, or let me convince you—that's what leads to better decisions and firmer resolve in those who carry them out."
A mortal's thinking. A new path, yes, but Conrad sneered at it. A Primarch's will was absolute, his judgment infallible—wasn't it?
Yet after three failures, even that certainty wavered.