Interlude: Iron and Fire Drake

"It's a pleasure to meet you, brother," Perturabo said.

He told a lie skillfully; by now, he was quite familiar with the matter. The truth was: no, he didn't want to see Vulkan at all.

At least not now.

Don't ask why.

"Me too," the dark-skinned, red-eyed giant replied with a smile. He wore a dark green outer robe over a clean gray shirt, which complemented his unusual skin tone and menacing eyes.

He sat in a large chair that Perturabo had specially prepared, and despite its astonishing size, Vulkan still appeared robust. Of all the Primarch, only his inhumanity was so pronounced, in every respect.

As the master, the Lord of Iron did not take a seat. After offering his greetings, he turned around and busied himself with a huge screen hanging on the wall.

This is his private war room, where few people can meet or speak with him. It is very quiet, with most of the space piled high with documents and Dataslate, as well as some handicrafts bearing the strong Perturabo imprint—making something extraordinary and then discarding it as worthless.

If it were Vulkan himself, he would never have done that. Anything that has been given effort should be treated with care, whether it is one's own or someone else's.

However, he didn't try to change Perturabo's mind. Everyone has a different personality, and forcing someone to change will only breed resentment. But, it's worth mentioning that Vulkan actually found a flower there, quietly sitting in a silver flowerpot.

It was placed on a long table, carefully concealed by someone using paper documents. But that person forgot one thing.

Flowers, after all, have a fragrance.

Vulkan laughed, Perturabo coughed without turning his head, tossing over a piece of synthetic metal that was placed below the screen. Vulkan caught it steadily with one hand, the cold and rough texture giving him great satisfaction.

No blacksmith dislikes iron.

He touched its surface and began to think about what kind of weapon it would be suitable for, without mentioning anything about what he had discovered earlier.

He doesn't need to bring it up; Perturabo will say it himself.

Sure enough, within seconds, the Lord of Iron turned around. He stared expressionlessly at Vulkan and pointed in the direction of the flower.

"I didn't find anything," Vulkan said immediately, a statement that was tantamount to an admission of guilt.

Perturabo frowned. "How can your lying skills be so poor? Aren't you even willing to Deceit me seriously for once?"

"I don't think lying is a good thing, especially lying to you, Perturabo," Vulkan replied with a smile, placing the metal piece on the table beside him.

Perturabo stared at him for a while before coldly relenting and finally revealing the secret. He stood ramrod straight with his hands behind his back, and began to speak slowly, as if giving an academic presentation.

"That's a gift from Calliphone," he said. "That dizzy tyrant escaped her duties, leaving everything to others. She went and opened a research lab, studying how to recreate the animals and plants of Ancient Terra. This is one of her achievements."

Vulkan nodded, not asking Perturabo why he knew so much about these things, especially since the Lord of Iron's tone was calm and even a little disdainful.

He looked at the potted plant again; its faintly visible purple petals were closed together, the petals bearing patterns that refracted a stunning brilliance under the light, exuding a noble air.

"She said it's a purple variety of tulip," Perturabo said. "I know what tulips look like, but I don't intend to dampen her enthusiasm."

"Hmm, hmm," Vulkan nodded again, seemingly lost in thought, his reply somewhat perfunctory, consisting of only two muffled nasal sounds, which was quite unusual.

Perturabo snorted and turned back to his work.

Vulkan gave him a slightly strange look, but didn't say anything. He just looked at the screen and began to follow Perturabo's train of thought, trying to find something to do during this awkward silence that was destined to last for a while.

To be honest, watching Perturabo work is a real treat.

He tirelessly derived, categorized, and summarized the complex data manually. Countless data points and words flashed before his eyes, but only a few deserved his close attention. The vast majority were categorized by him seemingly casually but with unparalleled precision.

While doing all this, he even had the energy to conduct war simulations and tactical drills based on the situation in the Isstvan System. This work sounds complicated and exhausting, but in Perturabo's hands, it was like an art.

Vulkan looked at him with admiration, stood up with satisfaction, and his expression changed. The relaxed and pleasant atmosphere vanished from his face, leaving only a chilling seriousness.

He walked over to Perturabo and waited quietly for a while until Perturabo finished his work before speaking.

Have you heard Konrad Curze talk about those things?

"What's up?"

"Prophecy, stories—" Vulkan gestured. "—Those things that would be misleading, making people think he had mental problems."

Perturabo's expression also turned serious. He crossed his arms and looked at Vulkan silently and solemnly. After a long while, he slowly spoke.

"Yes, I've heard of it."

"Then that makes things easier," Vulkan said.

He raised his hand, picked out a single word from the torrent of data on the screen, and placed it in front of Perturabo.

"Regardless of how you view them, at least we can save ourselves a lot of trouble. Do you believe those words, brother?"

Perturabo stared at the word and slowly shook his head.

Isstvan.

"Then let's talk about the Warmaster first," Vulkan said, his deep voice echoing in the tactics room, sounding so profound that it evoked the sound of echoing mountains.

"Five years have passed since Father announced him as Warmaster in Ullanor. Do you remember that day?"

"My memories of the celebrations are even clearer after they ended," Perturabo said. "Especially of Russ."

Vulkan tried to stop himself from smiling, but failed—he smiled regretfully, intending to appear serious, but now unable to resist a touch of wistful reflection.

"Yes, me too. I remember Russ trying to wrestle with me back then. Anyway, I must admit, Warmaster did a great job; he lived up to the title."

"However, there have been at least two recent orders from him that I cannot understand. First, he ordered the Word Bearers to fight alongside the Ultramarines. Second, he ordered us to gather in Isstvan. As far as I know, Fulgrim, Angron, and Corax have already set off."

"Therefore, if we include you and me, Mortarion, and himself, that makes a total of seven legions. Why would we need so many Astartes to deal with a rebellion on the scale of a star system? What exactly is he doing here?"

"I don't know," Perturabo said. "I suppose I don't need to know. Just obey orders. The Warmaster's orders are equivalent to the Emperor's, and I swore an oath to obey all of our father's orders."

"Me too, but you and I both know that Horus is not our father." Vulkan paused for a moment before continuing, "However, this matter is at most puzzling; he's always been like this, fond of keeping things mysterious and joking. Perhaps the Isstvan System truly does have a formidable enemy that we must confront together."

The Lord of Drakes smiled slightly, a hint of sadness in his eyes. "You see, brother, I could find many reasons to excuse him. If I hadn't listened to Konrad Curze, I would have been more than happy to do it. But I have, and so have you, brother."

"A few words don't mean anything," Perturabo replied seriously. "You yourself said those words made people suspect he might have mental problems."

"But he mentioned those two things precisely." Vulkan shifted his gaze to the tulip.

Which two things?

"Isstvan, and that tulip."

"What are you talking about?" Perturabo frowned sharply. "What tulips?"

"The tulip your sister Calliphone gave you, brother," Vulkan began slowly. "Konrad Curze mentioned it to me; I watched him recover from a violent seizure, and then he told me about it."

"Go on," Perturabo spat out through gritted teeth, his face expressionless.

He said you will receive a flower from someone in the future, but you will eventually lose it.

"Bang--!"

Perturabo, his expression grim, shoved Vulkan against the wall and grabbed him by the Vulkan. Though far smaller than the Lord of Drakes, his expression was terrifyingly violent.

"Say it again if you dare, Vulkan."

"Suppress your anger, Perturabo," Vulkan told him calmly. "I haven't finished speaking, and our business isn't over. You know I didn't mean it that way; you're just taking it out on me."

"I will not lose!" the Lord of Iron roared, releasing his grip, but he did not deny that he was taking his anger out on the enemy.

"Who?"

That flower.

"Ha." Vulkan chuckled, offering no comment.

He stepped away from the wall, straightened his clothes, and returned to the matter he was recounting. He remained composed and calm.

"In short, he proved himself. At least with this flower, the talent he called a curse didn't go wrong. This forces me to take some of his other statements seriously."

Perturabo fell silent. He walked to the long table and moved the stack of documents aside. He looked at the tulip, his hands, which had been resting on the edge of the table, gradually clenched into fists.

Vulkan's voice came from behind him. "I remember those words, and I can still repeat them to you now, Perturabo, if you would like to hear them."

"No need," Perturabo said, his gaze fixed on the flower. "It's pointless. I don't believe those glimpses of the future he paints will ever become reality. The Emperor will never allow humanity's future to be so dark."

He turned around.

"Neither do I," said the Lord of Iron.

"So?" Vulcan looked at him inquiringly.

"So let's wait for Mortarion for a while. If I'm really going to discuss those things with you, I hope I only have to say them once."

Vulkan smiled, nodded, and returned to his seat.

P. S.: The Horus Command mentioned in this chapter is a revised version. In the official canon, Istvaan V was a meticulously planned trap that occurred after the loyalists of Istvaan III escaped back to Terra. I made some changes, otherwise the plot would have been somewhat inconvenient.

I'm not referring to hairdressers.