“Magnus, allow me to present my Lord Commanders, Eidolon and Vespasian.”

“A very real pleasure to meet you all,” said Magnus, bowing to his brother primarchs’ warriors, honouring them as he honoured their masters.

“Well,” said Fulgrim, “this promises to be a momentous day, brother, so shall we get on?”

“Of course,” said Magnus. “I am eager to begin.”

“As are we all,” promised the Phoenician.

SANGUINIUS AND FULGRIM led them into the heart of the volcano, the tunnels within glassy and smooth, indicating they had been formed with industrial-scale meltas. They cut through the heart of the volcano, wide enough for the three primarchs to walk abreast, spiralling upwards through the solidified lava. The tunnels were lit with fiery luminescence, as though the molten heat of the magma at the volcano’s heart was seeping up from below.

Ahriman removed his helmet to better appreciate the startling geology of the volcano, seeing shifting bands of crystalline layers through the translucent rock, like the sedimentary bands of an exposed rock face.

“This world may be young, but this volcano is old,” noted Ahriman, seeing the glances passing between Fulgrim’s lord commanders as he spoke. He couldn’t read their auras, and nor could he establish a link to his Tutelary. The glare of the Emperor’s light was too powerful, overshadowing everything with its intensity.

Ahriman wondered if Magnus was similarly blinded by it.

He watched Magnus and his brothers as they spoke in low tones, relishing the sight of his primarch in the company of peers who harboured no ill-will towards him. Yet despite the bonhomie, their discourse was superficial. The more Ahriman studied the ebb and flow of their conversation and body language, the more he saw the supple flex of linguistic sparring.

The primarchs spoke of past campaigns, old glories and shared experiences, treading only on the comfortable ground of memory. Any hint that the subject of their meandering words might turn to matters of the future or the nature of the conclave were subtly deflected by Fulgrim, turned around and steered to safer ground.

He’s hiding something,thought Ahriman, something he doesn’t want us to know about this gathering.

Magnus must also be aware of it, but his primarch gave no sign that he was anything other than a willing actor in this unfolding drama. Ahriman looked at the Emperor’s Children behind and before them, now seeing them as a prisoner escort instead of an honour guard.

He wanted to warn Magnus, but nothing he might say could change their course. Whatever awaited them in the great amphitheatre he knew lay at the heart of this volcano, they had no choice but to face it. This was one destiny where the future was immutable and changeless.

The coiling passage wound ever upwards, and Ahriman knew they were close the summit.

The glow of the walls grew brighter, and Ahriman saw the extra light was coming from a vaulted antechamber of mirror-smooth basalt and glass. Servitors awaited their arrival with refreshments, and padded couches lined the walls.

“These will be your private chambers during recesses in the conclave,” said Sanguinius.

“They are quite sufficient,” replied Magnus.

Ahriman wanted to scream at the stilted formality of it all. Couldn’t Magnus see that something was terribly wrong here? Sweat beaded on Ahriman’s face and neck. He had the overwhelming urge to retreat to the waiting Stormhawk, fire up its engines and fly back to the Photep, never to return to Nikaea.

A pair of bronze doors led into the heart of the mountain, and the future pressed in from the other side.

“Is there anything else you require, friend Ahzek?” asked Lord Commander Eidolon.

Ahriman shook his head, the effort of keeping his expression neutral almost beyond him.

“No,” he managed, “though I thank you for your concern.”

“Of course, brother,” said Eidolon, and Ahriman caught the inflexion on the last word.

Sanguinius turned and nodded to Raldoron and Thoros, who took up position on either side of their master and threw the bronze doors open.

It was all Ahriman could do not to scream a warning at Magnus. The Primarch of the Blood Angels marched through the great portal into the golden light with Fulgrim at his side. They beckoned Magnus to follow them.

Magnus turned to face Ahriman, and he saw the hurt of impending betrayal in his eye.

“I know, Ahzek. I know,” said Magnus wearily. “I see now why we are here.”

Magnus turned and followed his brothers into the light.

AHRIMAN FOLLOWED MAGNUS through the doors, entering a grand amphitheatre hewn from the sharp-sided inner slopes of the volcano’s crater. Thousands of figures filled its carved black benches, looking down into the amphitheatre. Most were robed adepts of high rank, though Ahriman saw groupings of Astartes scattered throughout the tiers. The stone floor of the amphitheatre was polished black marble, inlaid with a vast eagle of gold.

Sanguinius and Fulgrim led them to the centre of the arena, and Ahriman was struck by the appropriateness of the term, reminded of old Romanii legends that described how captured members of an underground sect had been thrown to the wolves and eaten alive for the perverse enjoyment of the crowd.

Though the world around them was raging in its birthing pangs, the air within the volcano was utterly still, the tempests beyond its tapered peak kept at bay by the hidden workings of the Mechanicum.

Ahriman’s stride faltered as he saw the pyramid-stepped dais at the opposite side of the amphitheatre and the being that awaited them. This was the epicentre of the light and the beacon that had guided them through the maelstrom of spatial interference around Nikaea. So bright that he was almost obscured by his own brilliance, the Emperor of Mankind sat upon a carved throne of soaring eagle’s wings and grasping claws coloured with blood red rubies. A golden sword lay across his lap, and he bore an eagle-topped orb in his left hand.

Flags of black silk and gold embroidery rippled above the Emperor, borne aloft by silver cherubs with glittering clarions that filled the air with a tuneless fanfare. At once, Ahriman was reminded of the Visconti-Sforza card that Lemuel had asked him catch.

“Judgement,” he whispered, wondering how he could have missed so obvious a portent.

Custodes warriors flanked their master and formed an armoured wall before the dais. Ahriman’s doubts fled in the face of so wondrous an individual, for what could trouble a mind so blessed with this vision of perfection before it? He could not see the Emperor’s face, merely impressions. A thunderous brow and stern, patrician features cast in a mould of dashed hope.

“Clarity, Ahzek,” said Magnus. “Stand with me, and rise into the Enumerations. Retain your keenness of thought.”

Ahriman tore his gaze from the Emperor with effort and stepped alongside Magnus. He whispered the names of the first masters of Tizca over and over until he achieved the peace of the lowest sphere. Reaching that made advancing to the higher spheres easier, and Ahriman’s thoughts returned to something approaching equilibrium with every step he took.

Freed from the clutter of emotion, he turned his attention to studying their surroundings as thoroughly as he might peruse any grimoire. He saw that the Emperor was not alone on the dais. The praetorian beside the Emperor was a warrior Ahriman had met once before on Terra, Constantin Valdor.

From the look of the curling script that snaked all around his armour, Valdor had prospered in the ranks of the Custodes, his proximity to the Emperor surely marking him as its most senior member.

A man in the plain dark robes of an administrator stood next to Valdor, an unassuming man rendered fragile and insignificant next to the giant Custodes warrior. This man too, Ahriman recognised, his long mane of white hair and all too human frailties marking him out as Malcador the Sigillite, the Emperor’s trusted right hand and most valued counsellor.