There were many Greek tales, and Caelan told them one by one to Lorgar and Erebus. Yet beneath every story lay the same foundation: the world was a grand stage, where there were no true actors, only gods and their puppets.
The world moved according to the gods' will. Nothing was allowed to exist beyond their control.
"Arachne was born into a family of weavers," Caelan began. "She possessed an extraordinary gift for weaving. One day, the goddess of wisdom heard of her and disguised herself as an old woman to challenge Arachne."
"Athena wove a tapestry depicting her battle with Poseidon, believing her victory certain. But Arachne's work was even more perfect."
"Yet what Arachne wove was a scene of Zeus's countless affairs with mortal women. Athena, humiliated and enraged, used that as an excuse to destroy Arachne's tapestry and tools, then cursed her, turning her into a spider."
As the stories went on, Erebus grew increasingly silent. He no longer knelt to pray at dawn, nor did he stain his skin with ink to inscribe the scriptures across his body.
One night, he stood alone under the dim light of the washroom. Water streamed down his skin as he scrubbed himself over and over, until his flesh was raw and bleeding, as if he could somehow strip away an invisible brand carved deep into his very being.
In every story Caelan told, those who rebelled against the gods met tragic ends.
Those who resisted were always crushed, ground beneath the gears of fate, or condemned to eternal torment.
And the gods?
They remained lofty and untouchable, toying with mortals as they pleased, turning every tale into yet another farce.
Erebus became quieter still. He locked himself away, rarely seeing anyone, except when attending Caelan's lessons, where he listened with grave attention.
Though Caelan had admitted many times that these were merely stories, he also warned them: the real gods were far crueler than those of myth.
The people of Colchis worshiped their gods with devotion. But what had they ever received in return?
Only endless oppression and suffering.
Erebus lost his faith, and the ability to believe ever again.
He drifted aimlessly onto the deck. Beyond it stretched the boundless desert, and the land-ship's steam engines rumbled as it cut through the sands.
When he came to his senses, he found himself standing in the shadow between the slave quarters and the believers' quarters.
A tide of people knelt upon the rusted steel planks, forming a whirlpool of devotion.
At its center stood Lorgar.
In mere weeks, the boy had grown rapidly, his figure now tall and commanding.
When he lowered his violet eyes, the kneeling masses before him swayed like waves of wheat. The dim light above painted his outline in dark gold, making him look like an ancient god awakening from slumber.
"Stand," he said, his violet gaze sweeping over the upturned faces. "I am not here to accept your worship. I am here to lead you to stand."
A murmur rippled through the crowd. The aged Nairo was the first to rise, trembling, followed by another, then another. One by one, the slaves stood, and soon the believers followed.
Lorgar watched them, not with joy, but with quiet heaviness.
They had stood up, yes, but they did not understand why.
If someone ordered them to kneel again, they would likely obey faster than before.
Teaching them why they must stand, that was part of Lorgar's mission.
"From this moment on," Lorgar said, pulling apart the shackles of a nearby youth, "there will be no more slaves. Slavery is abolished. All are equal."
It was the first time he exercised his authority and will, his first defiance against the old order, beginning with the rot of slavery.
The crowd fell silent. No joy. No cheers. Only confusion.
They had been kneeling for too long, so long they'd forgotten how to stand, forgotten what freedom even felt like.
As for the faithful, their devotion remained. Once, these slaves belonged to Kor Phaeron. Now, they belonged to Lorgar.
And his granting them freedom only proved, in their minds, the prophet's mercy.
Thus, Lorgar abolished slavery, and yet, in a way, he hadn't.
"Sit," he said.
The sound of shifting bodies echoed across the deck as the slaves hesitated, then lowered themselves onto the cold metal floor, like shells scattered after the tide recedes. Lorgar sat among them, draped loosely in his white robe, the fabric slipping off his shoulders until he almost merged with the shadows.
"Every small-day," he said, "except during long noon and high night, I will come here at this hour. I hope you will come too. This is not an order, it is a request."
People began to lower themselves to kneel again, but Lorgar stopped them before they could move.
"Do not kneel."
The followers froze, torn between fear of disrespecting the prophet and fear of disobeying his command.
Their bodies twisted awkwardly in indecision, knees half-bent, backs half-straight, like marionettes caught between two opposing strings.
At last, unable to hold the pose, they collapsed where they stood like broken puppets.
"My lord," Nairo's trembling voice broke the silence, "are you truly a prophet?"
All eyes turned toward Lorgar, filled with confusion and yearning.
"I am not the gods' prophet," he said calmly. "I am humanity's Primarch."
"I do not believe in the gods, and neither should you. Humanity has never needed the salvation of gods."
The crowd froze, their breath caught. Murmurs spread like ripples through water.
Lorgar's face was serene, his expression like a still lake, neither angry nor anxious. His violet eyes regarded them with quiet steadiness.
It should have been the spark of a crisis, a collapse of faith, a riot of blood and madness.
Yet when the people lifted their eyes to him, they were soothed by his calm.
His violet eyes were like deep wells, swallowing fear and chaos alike.
Slowly, the whispers and sobs faded. Clenched fists relaxed.
A strange peace settled over the crowd like moonlight upon their shoulders.
In that silence, many began to feel, perhaps for the first time, that his words were true. Maybe humanity had never needed gods at all.
Lorgar lifted his gaze, his voice gentle as a passing breeze.
"Do not fear, and do not waver," he said. "For I will show you why mankind needs no gods to believe in."
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