"Nairo, are you asleep? I can't fall asleep."
Paresa crawled over beside Nairo and whispered softly.
Nairo sat up. The slave dormitory wasn't as spacious as the believers' quarters, but the slaves still tried to keep it tidy.
Under Lorgar's orders, the slaves no longer had to huddle together in the cramped slave quarters. Some of them were moved into the believers' dormitories, while the believers themselves were gathered together into fewer rooms.
Now, every room housed people of nearly the same status. At least in terms of living conditions, there was some semblance of equality.
Nairo didn't know if this was good or bad, but the other slaves were all deeply anxious. These brown-skinned companions looked at Nairo with eyes full of hope and unease.
"What's worrying you?" Nairo asked.
"Freeing slaves from the gods' rule is blasphemy," Paresa said, biting her lip. "And now he wants us to abandon our faith in the gods. That will make the gods forsake us."
Nairo recalled his days within the high walls. He used to be a teacher, but for testifying on behalf of a slave, he was punished and turned into one himself. That had been not long ago. After being demoted to slavery, he followed Kor Phaeron beyond the walls, into this desolate desert.
Yet he considered himself fortunate. If he hadn't been made a slave, if he hadn't followed Kor Phaeron here, he would never have met Lorgar.
Even so, Nairo had once been terrified of Lorgar's decrees.
He was already ten years old, and he had lived his whole life in devotion to the gods.
Inside the walls, there were a million believers and three million slaves. Everyone worshipped the gods devoutly. Even Lorgar could not possibly make them abandon a faith that had defined their entire lives.
Everything Lorgar did was seen as blasphemy against the gods. That was why they were afraid, afraid of divine punishment.
Nairo, too, had once trembled when his faith was challenged. But as he met the expectant gazes of those around him, his heart began to settle.
"If the gods are truly omnipotent," Nairo said, "then they would have punished my lord the moment he asked us to abandon our faith."
Paresa looked at him in horror.
"And if the gods are truly omnipotent," Nairo continued, "then they would punish me this very instant for speaking blasphemy."
He fell silent and closed his eyes. He waited. Nothing happened.
"Since they did not punish my lord, nor have they punished me, then it means either they are not omnipotent, or they do not care about the faith of mankind, or both. And if the gods are not truly all-powerful, why should we worship them?"
Paresa was terrified. Her frail body trembled like a dry leaf in the wind. Her cracked lips quivered as she whispered fragmented prayers. Nairo, however, calmly pointed toward the vent. Sunlight streamed through the rusted grate, falling upon them.
"Look. The sun has not dimmed. The sandstorm has not come." His words struck like a hammer shattering chains, breaking cracks into the foundations of their belief. "If the gods cannot even punish the blasphemy of an old slave, why should we fear their wrath?"
Inside, Nairo still felt uneasy. He was afraid.
Lorgar had freed them and told them to cast aside their faith in the gods, yet he had not denied the gods' existence.
Lorgar was a prophet. The gods might tolerate his defiance.
But Nairo was merely an old slave. The gods would show him no mercy.
He had truly been waiting for death just now, but death had not come. The gods' punishment had not come.
And that, somehow, calmed him. He had been trying to convince the others, but also himself.
"This is heresy!"
In the believers' dormitory, the gathered faithful were in uproar. They, too, were shaken by Lorgar's words. Their faith ran even deeper than the slaves', for they were the beneficiaries of the Covenant. Even if faith had not been a factor, they would have defended it out of self-interest.
To many, Lorgar's status had shifted, from prophet to heretic.
"Akshida, say something!" one of the believers shouted.
"What do you want me to say, Aranji?" Akshida asked.
"He's not a prophet!" Aranji roared, the white tattoos on his dark skin twisting as his face contorted. "He's an abomination! A cursed sand-born mutant! The Powers didn't bless him, they cursed him!"
Many shouted in agreement, giving Aranji more confidence.
Akshida remained silent. If Lorgar were truly a prophet, they would of course serve him faithfully. But Lorgar himself had denied that, even commanding them to abandon the gods. That was pure heresy. And compared to forsaking the gods, forsaking a prophet carried a far lighter price.
He could understand them, but he would not join them.
"Maybe it's not him," Turesa said. "Maybe it's those two, Erebus and Caelan. They must have deceived the prophet!"
Her words found quick support. The people of Colchis always leaned toward compromise. They feared abandoning the gods but did not wish to abandon the prophet either.
So they convinced themselves that the prophet had been misled. If they could kill those who deceived him, everything would return to order.
Akshida thought their naivety was terrifying.
"We must expel them before their curse spreads to us!" Aranji continued to stir them up. "It's the only way to redeem ourselves! Then the Powers will bless us again!"
The believers grew restless. Many had opposed Kor Phaeron.
Lorgar had killed Kor Phaeron and become their new leader.
Kor Phaeron had only been exiled as a heretic, but Lorgar wanted them to renounce the gods themselves. That was far worse.
"Akshida, you should lead us!" Turesa cried.
Still, he said nothing until all eyes turned to him. He had to speak, or he'd become their first victim.
"I'll go see the prophet," Akshida said. "Whatever you plan to do, I'll tell him everything."
Some believers watched him leave, fingers tightening around hidden daggers.
Aranji subtly shook his head.
They couldn't kill Akshida yet. He led the guards, and even though the guards' faith had wavered, they would still defend him to the death. Now wasn't the time for infighting.
"When will you go?" Aranji asked.
"Now," Akshida replied. "If you're fast enough, maybe you can get there before me."
He walked toward the door. Aranji's face darkened, then hardened with resolve. He signaled the others, and they would go before Akshida and kill the blasphemers first.
"What are they doing out there at night?" a woman mumbled groggily.
Van Mogair leaned against the wall, peering through the iron bars of the window.
"They're going to kill," came the old chieftain's gravelly reply.
"Kill who?" she asked in confusion.
"Lorgar."
The woman instantly woke. Around her, other nomads stirred from sleep.
Someone knocked over a copper water jug, its clatter echoing like thunder in the quiet night.
The woman sprang to her feet, her blanket falling from her shoulders.
"Then we have to protect him!"
"Why?" Mogair asked.
"Because he protected us!"
Mogair fell silent. Lorgar had saved them from the guards' guns, but not out of gratitude.
He had raised Lorgar, cared for him, but Lorgar had never felt any affection for him or his tribe.
He protected them not because of them, but because of Caelan.
Perhaps it was that divine spark in him; his nature was cold, detached, belonging nowhere. Mogair remembered those violet eyes, filled with frozen starlight. When Lorgar looked at people, it was the same gaze he gave to scorpions crawling from the dunes.
He cared nothing for life, nothing for the world.
He was a traveler, a passing shadow who had come briefly into the world and would one day leave it just as suddenly.
Mogair saw the truth, perhaps the only one who did.
He had once hoped that child could become his son. To be the mortal who raised the child of a god, what greater honor could there be, even in death?
"You're right," Mogair finally said. From under his blanket, he drew a musket. "We should protect him."
The believers of the Covenant once saw Lorgar as a prophet, but now, since he turned away from the gods, they had turned away from him.
The nomads, too, had gods, but they worshipped the primal forces, earth, fire, wind, and water, not the Powers from the stars.
That was why he named the boy Lorgar, "the Raincaller."
The desert people needed water more than anything. He had hoped the child would become their salvation.
So they did not fear his "heresy." They never believed in the Covenant's gods to begin with.
They would protect that child, not because he had saved them, but because Mogair saw hope in him.
Even if Lorgar denied his divinity, Mogair believed he was the son of a god, not of the void beyond the stars, but of this world, blessed by its elements.
He might be cold, but not heartless. He still cared for one man: Caelan.
Mogair had only met Caelan a few times, but in him, he saw something familiar, something like a father's love.
Lorgar felt nothing for Mogair because he never saw him as a father.
But Mogair could see it in Lorgar's eyes; he saw Caelan as one.
He remembered Lorgar curled up in Caelan's arms, white porcelain cheeks against a warm human chest, lashes trembling in the morning light, a child clinging to his father's scent. That fragile warmth was painfully at odds with the divine coldness he otherwise radiated.
Mogair could never understand where that attachment came from; they had never even met before.
Only two possibilities came to mind.
Either Caelan truly was Lorgar's biological father, and that bond came from the link between god and son.
But that seemed impossible. Lorgar denied his divinity, denied the gods themselves, and Caelan was the one who taught him to.
So perhaps, Lorgar still had humanity. He might be divine, but he still cared. He was not beyond all life.
Mogair had accepted that he could never be Lorgar's father. But Caelan had raised him well.
Those violet eyes, swirling with galaxies, still revealed his nonhuman nature, but beneath the divine frost, a trace of human warmth had begun to bloom.
Mogair couldn't fully explain why they needed to protect him, but perhaps that was reason enough.
The nomads armed themselves and followed Mogair into the night to stop the believers.
Akshida opened the door. Lorgar looked up from a yellowed scroll. Caelan and Erebus were asleep on blankets nearby.
They had spent the last several days buried in study, and Akshida had known, but told no one.
"My lord," Akshida knelt.
"Quietly, Akshida. What is it?"
"Aranji and Turesa have rallied half the believers. They plan to assassinate your mentor. By now, they must have realized he's not in his quarters. They'll come here next."
Lorgar calmly closed the ancient book, the parchment whispering under his fingertips.
"Rise."
Akshida stood, swallowing nervously. The child he once guarded had grown into a giant who made him feel small.
Lorgar's expression was calm as the desert night, but his violet eyes froze Akshidar's blood.
Even when Lorgar had killed Kor Phaeron, his gaze had been cold, but now, he was angry.
"My lord…" Akshida began.
"Shh."
Lorgar silenced him with a gesture and stepped out quietly, closing the door to avoid waking the sleepers.
Erebus didn't matter. Lorgar disliked him; Erebus had been fortunate to meet Caelan first.
But Caelan was only human. He needed rest.
It was Lorgar's own childish wish that Caelan sleep near him; he couldn't bear even a moment apart. He feared that if he turned away, Caelan might simply vanish.
Footsteps approached, like a sandstorm.
The mob of believers appeared before Lorgar, clutching weapons, eyes trembling with fear.
"Kill him!" Aranji screamed, "The gods are watc-"
He clutched his throat as blood poured from his mouth.
Lorgar was not like his brothers; he wasn't a warrior by nature, but he was still a Primarch, graceful and lethal.
He killed Aranji because he was too noisy. What if he woke Caelan?
The shouts of anger quickly turned into screams of pain and terror.
Lorgar moved faster than they could see. By the time they tried to speak, they were already dead.
In the span of six heartbeats, the believers were corpses. Bones broken, limbs twisted, blood pooling on the metal floor.
The freed slaves and nomads arrived late. They froze at the sight of Lorgar standing among the bodies, his white robes and face splattered with blood.
That divine, suffocating presence made the air itself feel like ice. They fell to their knees, stammering that they weren't with the traitors.
"There's no need to kneel," Lorgar said gently. "I've seen your loyalty. I'm not in danger. Go and rest."
He turned to Akshida. "Clean this up. Don't wake the others."
"Yes, my lord."
Lorgar pushed open the door. Caelan sat at the table, awake, watching him.
Lorgar froze, like a guilty child caught misbehaving.
"Close the door," Caelan said.
Lorgar obeyed quietly. "I'm sorry."
"Why apologize?" Caelan asked with a faint smile. "You did well. They were poisoned by faith. Death is their only release."
"I made too much noise. I woke you."
"Do you think I'd be angry at you for that?"
"Of course not!"
Lorgar's voice rose sharply. How could Caelan think that?
"Then why are you afraid?"
"I'm not afraid, I just…"
"Feel guilty?"
Lorgar nodded. Like a child who meant well but caused trouble, knowing his father wouldn't be angry, but feeling remorse all the same.
"You know what that's called?" Caelan asked.
Lorgar shook his head.
"Emotional exhaustion," Caelan said. "Most of your brothers are the same, trapped in endless self-doubt. I hate that about you all. I've never hidden the truth from you because I believe you'll lead humanity to rebirth."
"But if you fall apart over something so small, am I really so unworthy of your trust?"
"You're the one I trust most in this world!" Lorgar's eyes widened, his face flushed with emotion.
"I believe you." Caelan smiled. "Then let's make a promise. No matter what happens in the future, you can always come to me. I may not solve your problems, but I'll always listen."
Lorgar hesitated, then stepped forward and raised his little finger.
"Pinky swear."
Caelan chuckled. "Are you a child?"
"Aren't I?" Lorgar asked innocently. "I've only been alive for forty days. By Terra's calendar, that's 284 days. I'm still a baby."
A two-meter-tall baby, but technically correct.
"You win," Caelan sighed, linking his pinky with Lorgar's.
"Pinky swear, never break it, for a lifetime."
"For a lifetime?"
"Yes. I'll keep this promise forever."
"Do you even know how long a lifetime is?"
"Is that not allowed?" Lorgar asked softly, a little nervous.
"It's allowed," Caelan said with a faint smile. "If you'll keep it for life, then so will I. I hope we can always stay honest, no doubt, no lies, pure heart to pure heart."
Caelan's smile deepened. He had once said the same to Curze, but Curze would never have made such a childish pinky swear.
Different worlds shaped different sons. Curze had killed before he could walk; Nostramo was the worst hell in the galaxy.
Colchis, though twisted by Chaos for millennia, had no visible corruption. The Covenant's doctrine still taught virtue.
Harsh as it was, its people weren't evil. In 284 days, Lorgar had only killed twice, far less than Curze, who by that age had slain thousands.
"What are you thinking?" Lorgar asked.
"About Curze," Caelan said. "Comparing you to him."
"Who's better?" Lorgar asked, childishly but anxiously.
"Neither," Caelan said. "You were shaped by different worlds. His was crueler, but your future will be harder. He grew up faster, but that doesn't make him better. You're both striving to be human."
Lorgar believed him, but still felt Caelan was dodging the question.
"Then… who's the older brother?" he asked suddenly.
Caelan rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "By number, he's the eighth, and you're the seventeenth. But the Primarchs don't really care about numbers. Some go by the order of their rediscovery, others by birth. Those who rank low just laugh it off, nobody wants to be the little brother."
"But he met you before I did," Lorgar said quietly.
"Yes."
"And who else?"
"In my timeline, Curze was first. You're second."
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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