The Primarch of Liberty-Chapter 173: The Pale King and the Eagle

"I am your father,"

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Mortarion's eyes narrowed, the weight of the Emperor's words settling over him like an iron shroud. His grip on the soul jar tightened, his knuckles whitening as he studied the two figures before him.

"You are my father?" he said, his voice low and measured, laced with suspicion and anger. "A father who left me to rot in the toxic hell of Barbarus, to claw my way to survival while others were given guidance and power from birth?"

The Emperor's face remained impassive, golden eyes unblinking as they regarded His son. "You were never abandoned, Mortarion. You were taken from Me, scattered by forces that sought to prevent what I am building. What We will build together."

The explanation did little to soften Mortarion's stance. His jaw tightened, the muscles of his face working beneath pallid skin as he processed the claim.

"And you?" he asked, turning his attention to the other stranger, who stood with an air of casual confidence despite the confrontation unfolding before him.

A half-smile played at the corner of Franklin's mouth as he extended his hand again. "Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the 11th Legion. Your brother."

Brother. The word echoed in Mortarion's mind, foreign yet somehow right. He looked from Franklin to the Emperor and back again, seeing now the subtle resemblances that marked them as kin-not in their physical features, but in the aura of superhuman potential that surrounded them both.

"My... brother," Mortarion repeated, tasting the word as if it were one of the rare untainted foods of Barbarus. He did not take Franklin's hand immediately, but his stance softened almost imperceptibly.

Franklin lowered his hand without offense, seemingly understanding Mortarion's need for space. "I know it's a lot to take in. Twenty of us scattered across the galaxy, each finding our own way in the darkness."

"Twenty?" Mortarion's eyes widened slightly. "There are eighteen others like us?"

"Each unique," the Emperor interjected, His voice carrying the weight of centuries. "Each with gifts and purposes of their own. But all part of humanity's future."

Mortarion looked down at his hands-hands that had strangled warlords and broken the necks of monsters-then back to the Emperor. "And what future do you envision for me, 'father'? What purpose does the lord of a toxic wasteland serve in your grand design?"

"The same purpose that drives us all," Franklin answered before the Emperor could speak. "The unification of humanity under one banner, the conquest of the stars, and the protection of our species from the darkness that lurks beyond the veil of reality."

Mortarion's gaze lingered on Franklin, measuring him. "You speak as if you've seen this darkness."

"I have," Franklin nodded, his usual light-hearted demeanor slipping momentarily to reveal something harder, something tempered in combat. "We all have, in one form or another. Your witch-king was but a pale shadow of what awaits humanity if we remain divided."

The Emperor stepped forward, His golden armor catching what little light filtered through the poisonous clouds. "Mortarion, you have proven yourself a leader of men, a warrior who endures what would break lesser beings, and a hunter of those who would use unnatural powers to subjugate others. These qualities are not accidents. They are the essence of what you were created to be."

Mortarion felt a flicker of pride at the words, quickly suppressed beneath layers of suspicion. "Created," he repeated flatly. "Like a weapon."

"Like a son," the Emperor corrected, His voice softening almost imperceptibly. "One of twenty, each bearing a piece of My vision, My strength. You are not merely my creation, Mortarion, but my flesh and blood."

For a moment, silence hung heavy between them, disturbed only by the toxic winds that swirled around the mountain peak. Then Mortarion surprised himself by asking, "The others... my brothers. What are they like?"

Franklin's face brightened at this opening, however small. "As different as the worlds that shaped them. I was the first-found, Guilliman builds empires. Russ hunts with the ferocity of the wolves that raised him. Horus leads the fiercest attacks, Sanguinius the most noble Angel, Magnus the Master Sorcerer, Dorn and Perturabo Two Sides of the Same Coin, Vulkan The Craftsman, Fulgrim the Phoenician and Ferrus the Gorgon, Angron Lord of the Red Sands..." Franklin spoke, Mortarion found himself listening with growing interest, picturing these brothers he had never known existed. Brothers who had, perhaps, endured trials of their own. "And you?" Mortarion asked, fixing his pale eyes on Franklin. "What is the Primarch of the 11th Legion known for?"

Franklin grinned, some of his earlier levity returning. "Liberty, brother. My Legion fights for freedom, against all forms of tyranny. We believe in humanity's right to determine its own destiny-under the Emperor's guidance, of course." He added the last with a quick glance toward their father. "But that's not all. I do not simply fight for Freedom and Liberty. I am the one who creates the infrastructures-essential ones like the Galactic Internet and the robust economy of the Imperium. I am the Industrialist."

"Liberty," Mortarion echoed, the concept foreign to one who had known only oppression and struggle. "A noble ideal, if often impractical in a universe filled with predators."

"Perhaps," Franklin conceded. "But one worth fighting for nonetheless. And one I think you understand better than most, having liberated your people from Necare's reign."

The observation struck Mortarion like a physical blow. He had never considered his war against the witch-lords in terms of liberation; it had been vengeance, justice, necessity-but liberty? The concept shifted his perception of his own life's work in subtle ways.

"Your Legion awaits you, Mortarion," the Emperor said, drawing the conversation back to its purpose. "Warriors bred from your gene-seed, bearing your strengths and your resilience. The Dusk Raiders, they are called-bearers of death to humanity's enemies during twilight."

"Will you join me, my son?"

Mortarion looked up at the Emperor, his eyes reflecting a mix of exhaustion, hope, and a newfound resolve. He hesitated for a moment, then dropped to one knee, bowing his head in

submission.

"Yes, Father" Mortarion replied, his voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "I will join you. I will fight for your vision of a united galaxy."

The Emperor placed a hand on Mortarion's shoulder, a gesture of both acceptance and reassurance. "Rise, Mortarion. Together, we shall bring order to the stars."

854.30M,

The corridors of the fortress palace that had once belonged to Necare now echoed with the sound of industry. Walls that had once dripped with malign energies were being scrubbed clean by the people of Barbarus, their movements quick and purposeful as they reclaimed what had once been a symbol of their oppression. The work of transformation had begun almost immediately after Mortarion's victory, the Death Lord wasting no time in converting his enemy's stronghold into the administrative center of a newly liberated world. Franklin Valorian stood at the window of an antechamber, watching the activity in the courtyard below. Workers moved with efficiency, dismantling the grotesque statuary that had once adorned the grounds and replacing them with more practical structures. Despite the toxic atmosphere, the people of Barbarus labored without complaint, their bodies adapted through generations of hardship to withstand conditions that would kill an unprotected offworlder in minutes.

"Impressive people," Franklin remarked to his companions, his voice carrying a genuine note of admiration. "They've endured more than most and still find the strength to rebuild." Behind him, three transhuman figures stood in attentive silence, each bearing the unmistakable hallmarks of enhanced physiology, though none reached the stature of their Primarch. These were the Primeborn-beings forged through the complete integration of the Immortis Gland, elevating them to the closest approximation of a Primarch without the binding presence of a Primarch's soul. Standing at approximately ten feet tall, they loomed over normal humans, far surpassing even Custodians, while still falling short of the destiny bending ability of a true Primarch.

Denzel Washington, First Captain of the Liberty Eagles, nodded in agreement. His eyes- sharp with intelligence and experience-scanned the surroundings with habitual vigilance. "They remind me of the people of Nova Tertius," he observed, referring to one of the first worlds the Liberty Eagles had liberated during the Great Crusade. "Unbroken despite generations of suffering.'

Steven Armstrong, the Second Captain, folded massive arms across his chest, the servos in his Mech-suit, whirring softly with the movement. Standing at eleven feet, he was the tallest of the Primeborn, his physique more heavily muscled than his comrades, making him appear almost as broad as he was tall.

"Good stock for Astartes recruitment," he noted pragmatically. "If the Dusk Raiders needs additional candidates, they could do worse than draw from these people."

Henry Cavill, Third Captain and leader of the elite Minutemen Company, remained silent, his attention focused not on the activity outside but on the corridor beyond the chamber's entrance. Unlike his companions, whose relaxed postures belied their readiness for action, Cavill's alertness was more obvious, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his weapon.

Franklin noticed his captain's attention shift and raised an eyebrow. "Expecting trouble,

Henry?"

"No, Father," Cavill replied, his voice low. "But future knowledge doesn't absolve us of vigilance in the present."

Franklin's lips quirked in a half-smile at the reminder. Of all his captains, Cavill bore the strangest burden-memories of a timeline that would now never come to pass, a future where the Imperium had fallen and the galaxy had burned. Transported backward through time by Golden Age Tech and the Subtle Influence of the God-Emperor of the Future. "Fair point," Franklin conceded, turning back to the window. "Though I doubt we'll face any immediate threats here. Mortarion has been... thorough in his conquest."

"It's not external threats that concern me, my lord," Cavill replied, his eyes still fixed on the doorway. "Not all enemies announce themselves with bolter fire and battle cries."

The words had barely left his lips when footsteps echoed in the corridor outside-too heavy for a normal human, but lacking the distinctive tread of power armor. Franklin's posture shifted subtly, the casual observer becoming the alert predator in an instant.

The door swung open without announcement, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with pallid skin and hollow cheeks. His features bore the unmistakable markers of Barbarus heritage-the slightly enlarged breathing passages, the thickened eyelids that protected against toxic fumes, the waxy pallor that came from a lifetime spent beneath poisoned skies. Yet there was something more to him, a presence that marked him as exceptional even among

his hardy people.

Calas Typhon, First Captain of the Death Guard Legion that did not yet exist, stopped abruptly at the threshold, his eyes widening fractionally as he registered the four transhuman figures occupying the chamber. Though he had undoubtedly heard of the Emperor's arrival with his superhuman son, this was clearly his first direct encounter with beings so far removed from

humanity.

He Saluted Insitinctively

Franklin watched him carefully, brown eyes tracking every minute shift in the man's

expression. What Typhon could not have known was that Franklin saw more than just his

physical form-he perceived the faint, oily shimmer that clung to Typhon's aura, invisible to normal sight but painfully obvious to Franklin's warp-touched senses.

"You seek my brother," Franklin stated rather than asked, his voice pleasant yet edged with

something harder.

Typhon recovered quickly from his surprise, straightening to his full height-impressive for an unmodified human, though still dwarfed by the Primeborn captains, let alone Franklin himself.

"I seek Lord Mortarion," he confirmed, his guttural accent wrapping around the words. "I am Calas Typhon, commander of the Deathshroud. I have reports on the purification efforts in the lower valley that require his attention."

Franklin stepped away from the window, moving with deliberate casualness to the center of the room. His three captains shifted positions in perfect coordination, an unconscious movement of trained warriors adjusting to their lord's movement. Denzel moved to Franklin's right, Armstrong took position at his left, while Cavill remained near the door, effectively blocking Typhon's exit without making it obvious.

"Mortarion is in conference with our father," Franklin replied, his tone still conversational.

"They discuss the future of Barbarus and its integration into the Imperium." He gestured to a

closed door at the far end of the chamber. "You may wait here until they conclude their business, if you wish."

Typhon hesitated, clearly weighing his options. Protocol demanded he withdraw and return

later, yet the urgency of his reports or perhaps simple curiosity about these strangers-kept him rooted in place.

"I can wait," he decided finally, moving further into the room with a caution that spoke of a

lifetime spent assessing threats.

Franklin watched him with unnerving intensity, noting every aspect of the man's bearing-

the pride in his posture, the ambition in his eyes, the faint aura of something wrong that clung to him like a second skin. In the future Cavill had described, this man would betray Mortarion, surrender the Death Guard fleet to the Warp, and become the vector for a plague that would transform a Legion of proud warriors into shambling monstrosities.

That future was now in flux, altered by Franklin's very presence on Barbarus. Yet the seed of corruption was already present, whether Typhon himself realized it or not.

"Calas Typhon," Franklin said, speaking the name as if tasting it. "Mortarion speaks highly of

your actions during the campaign against Necare. Your loyalty to him has been... noteworthy."

Typhon inclined his head, accepting the praise without false modesty. "I serve the Saviour of Barbarus as he served our people-without reservation or compromise." "And will you continue that service when he leads the Dusk Raiders among the stars?" Franklin asked, moving a step closer. "When your enemies are no longer corrupt witch-lords but xenos and traitors to humanity?"

"I follow Mortarion," Typhon replied simply. "Where he leads, I will follow." Franklin nodded, as if satisfied with the answer. Then, without warning, he closed the

distance between them with inhuman speed, stopping mere inches from Typhon. Even without the advantage of his transhuman stature, the sudden movement was disorienting, and Typhon could not entirely suppress his instinctive step backward.

"I sense the Lord of Rot upon you," Franklin said, his words striking like thunder in the

silence. "His gaze lingers on you. You may not know it yet, but I can see it-the shadow of the Plague Lord."

Typhon stiffened, his instincts screaming at him to deny the accusation, but something in Franklin's tone made the words die in his throat.

Franklin's brown eyes, sharp and unyielding, locked onto Typhon's. "Give me cause, and I will

kill you. It would do you well to remember that."

The chamber fell into absolute silence. The three Primeborn captains had gone utterly still, their hands now openly resting on their weapons. Denzel's expression remained neutral, but Armstrong's face had hardened into a mask of barely contained aggression. Only Cavill seemed unsurprised by Franklin's words, his eyes reflecting a grim satisfaction. Typhon's face had drained of what little color it possessed, leaving him ashen. Not from fear

—though any sane man would have felt afraid in that moment-but from shock at the sudden, razor-edged warning delivered by a being so far beyond his understanding. In that fleeting, torturous moment, a vision overwhelmed him: within the depths of his mind, Typhon saw himself impaled upon a massive blade of fire-a portent so vivid that it sealed

his conviction of an inevitable death. Hovering above this dreadful scene, a colossal eagle

with eyes like molten gold fixed its gaze upon him, sizing him up as one might a vulnerable prey. The conflagration of fate and the majestic predator merged into a single, horrifying image, leaving Typhon trembling at the inescapable weight of destiny.

Franklin stepped back, breaking the tension but leaving the atmosphere heavy with unspoken

menace. "Remember, Typhon," he said softly. "Mortarion sees your loyalty. I see your potential. Let neither falter."

The Emperor's golden form had long since disappeared into the toxic mists of Barbarus,

leaving Franklin and Mortarion alone on the mountain peak. The air between them had eased slightly with their father's departure, though Mortarion's posture remained guarded, his pale features set in careful neutrality.

"He has that effect on people," Franklin said with a knowing smile, breaking the silence that had settled after the Emperor's departure. "Even his sons."

Mortarion's gaze shifted from the empty path to Franklin. "You speak of him with remarkable

familiarity."

"We've had our... discussions," Franklin replied, choosing his words with deliberate care.

"The Emperor respects strength, brother. Not just of arm, but of conviction. He doesn't need sycophants-he needs generals who can think for themselves."

"And yet he builds an empire where his word is absolute," Mortarion observed. Franklin nodded thoughtfully. "There's a tension there, I won't deny it. But the galaxy is a big

place. Room enough for many approaches, so long as humanity stands united against its

enemies."

They began their descent down the treacherous mountain path, moving with the sure-footed grace of beings far beyond human limitations. The toxic winds that would scour flesh from ordinary men's bones merely ruffled their hair and clothes.

"You mentioned two technological powers within the Imperium," Mortarion said after they had walked in companionable silence for some time. "The Mechanicum of Mars and... your Independence Sector?"

Franklin's face brightened at the question. "Indeed. The two greatest technological forces in

human space"

"And which serves the Imperium better?" Mortarion asked, a practical question from a practical mind. "Depends on what you need," Franklin replied. "If you want quality and true Golden Age technology—the kind that makes Xenos forces think twice-come to Independence Sector. We produce the finest equipment in the Imperium, bar none. The Custodes themselves use

our gear."

He gestured expansively, as if showcasing invisible wares. "But if you need a Trillion lasguns by Tomorrow, you go to Mars. They've mastered mass production on a scale that frankly boggles the mind. What they lack in innovation, they make up for in efficiency, although with Cawl at the helm I believe their Innovative Spirit will

return"

Mortarion considered this, his tactical mind already assessing the implications. "And the Dusk Raiders? Which forge world supplies them?"

"That will be your choice to make, brother," Franklin said. "Though if you'll permit a recommendation-a blended approach serves best. Mars for your basic equipment, Independence for specialized gear. Particularly anything designed to withstand toxic environments." He cast a meaningful glance at their surroundings. "We've some experience

in that arena."

They had reached a ridge overlooking a settlement-one of the human villages that had lived

under Necare's shadow for generations. Even from this distance, Franklin could see the celebrations underway, the people rejoicing in their newfound freedom.

"Your people love you," he observed quietly.

Mortarion's expression softened almost imperceptibly. "They are strong. They had to be, to

survive here."

"Like their lord," Franklin acknowledged. "The Dusk Raiders will embody that strength. Your gene-seed has seen to that."

A faint frown crossed Mortarion's features. "These warriors... my 'sons.' How will they

receive me? They have operated without my guidance for years."

"With awe and devotion," Franklin assured him. "They may not know it, but they were made for you, Mortarion. Your strength, your resilience, your determination-all encoded in their very being." He smiled. "Trust me, I've gone through this process myself. The moment you

stand before them, they'll know you. And you them."

Mortarion nodded, accepting the explanation without further comment. They continued down toward the village, where the people's celebrations grew more visible-bonfires lit despite the daylight, dancing figures moving around them in patterns of ritual significance. As they approached, Franklin reached into a pocket of his armor and withdrew a small, flat

device. "Before I forget," he said, offering it to Mortarion, "there's something you should

have."

Mortarion accepted the device cautiously, turning it over in his pale hands. "What is this?" Franklin touched a control, and a hololithic image sprang to life above the device-a portrait of twelve transhuman figures, each radiating power and purpose even through the static medium. The Emperor stood at the center, His golden armor gleaming, flanked by His sons in

a carefully arranged composition.

"Family portrait," Franklin explained, his tone light but his eyes watching Mortarion's reaction carefully. "Taken after Perty was found-the most recent of us to join the fold before

you." Mortarion studied the image with undisguised fascination, his eyes moving from face to face, cataloging his brothers. "Which one are you?" he asked. Franklin pointed to a figure standing near Leman Russ and Roboute Guilliman, his armor bearing the emblem of a stylized eagle. Even in the hololithic image, there was an unmistakable air of confident ease about him, a half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"There," he said. "Between the Wolf King and the Walking Excel Sheet. The three of us get along rather well, despite our differences in approach."

Mortarion scrutinized the image more closely, his gaze lingering on certain brothers longer

than others. "And this one?" he asked, indicating a towering figure whose bearing radiated

sullen determination.

"Perturabo," Franklin identified him. "Lord of the Iron Warriors. A genius with siege craft and technology, though..." he hesitated, choosing his words carefully, "he can be somewhat..

intense. Difficult to know, but worth the effort."

"He looks... familiar, somehow," Mortarion mused, studying Perturabo's features. "You two have more in common than might be immediately apparent," Franklin agreed.

"Both pragmatic, both meticulous in your planning, both uncompromising in your standards.

I think you'll understand each other better than most." Mortarion nodded slowly, then continued examining the other figures. "And this one, with

the red skin?"

"That is Magnus the Red, Primarch of the Thousand Sons. A man of brilliant mind, steadfast loyalty, and, beyond all others aside from our Father, the strongest Psyker among us." Mortarion's lips twisted into a grimace, and he uttered flatly, "Sorcery," his distaste for the

arcane arts unmistakable in every syllable. His tone was laced with a disapproval borne of years spent grappling with the Witch kings the Overlords of Barbarus. Franklin chuckled softly at Mortarion's dismissal, his eyes twinkling with both amusement and a trace of exasperation. Stepping closer, he spoke in a measured yet impassioned tone, "Mortarion, you must not be so hasty to dismiss that which you do not fully embrace. All of us Primarchs—each and every one of us-bears a part of Father within, and it is precisely Father who stands as the mightiest Psyker among mankind. Even you, Mortarion, possess an innate

psychic potential that you have yet to fully acknowledge." He paused, letting his words sink in before continuing, "There will come a time when you

must confront this latent power within you. You face a choice that is as monumental as it is personal: Will you persist in rejecting your inherent Psyker prowess, even if that rejection leads you down a path toward your own destruction? Or will you embrace the gift-and the burden of this power, harnessing it to achieve victories beyond your current imagining?" Franklin's gaze was unwavering as he fixed Mortarion with an intense, earnest look. "Think about it, brother. In this ever-darkening galaxy, where our enemies are as numerous as they are formidable, the power of the mind may be our greatest weapon. Rejecting it is to deny a part of who you are-a legacy shared by all of us, however different our paths may seem. I urge you to consider, not merely for your sake, but for the future of our people, what might be

achieved if you were to fully embrace your potential."

The silence that followed was thick with unspoken implications, the weight of destiny hanging heavily between them. In that moment, Mortarion's rugged features softened imperceptibly, and though his eyes remained cautious, a spark of contemplation began to flicker-a silent acknowledgment of the choice laid before him, as profound as it was

perilous.