A Banquet (2)

The banquet was being meticulously prepared, with many people busy at work.

Proud chefs, polite and eager waiters, scribes flexing their fingers ready to record, and painters mixing their pigments.

They were not the main characters of the feast, but they took pride in being its annotations.

Therefore, the banquet would proceed as scheduled.

In fact, it would certainly proceed as scheduled—on this ship, no one could defy the will of the one called the Emperor. His word was law, and his will was everyone's will.

Though there were sometimes exceptions.

"My Lord!"

The giant clad in white and gold robes sighed upon hearing Constantin Valdor's voice.

Then he turned, responding in a gentle tone, "I am here, Constantin."

"Why—" his Marshal stood frozen in disbelief. "—Why?"

"Why what?"

"The banquet!"

"You wish to ask why I am not having you stand behind me like silent statues as usual?"

"That is our duty!" Constantin Valdor said, his face taut. "How can the Emperor of Mankind be without the Adeptus Custodes by his side at a banquet?!"

"I merely wish to have a meal with my sons, something I haven't done since this journey began. Constantin, I implore you..."

The giant wearily rubbed his temples, the laurel wreath on his brow shifting with the movement. "...Sometimes, I need to be someone other than the Emperor."

"...Does the Master of the Sigils agree?"

"This is merely a banquet, Constantin. Must even such a thing require his permission?"

The giant shook his head with amusement, knowing his Marshal's intent was to seek some support from Malcador—Constantin was capable of political maneuvering, too.

He didn't use it often, but he could. And he had to. Unconsciously, the giant's thoughts drifted to a distant era, when he was not as weary as he was today.

But I do not wish to use political means now, Constantin.

I simply want to sit down peacefully and enjoy a banquet. For this, I will even disappoint the expectations of the scribes and painters.

I must.

He silently gazed at his Marshal.

"...I understand, My Lord."

"Thank you, Constantin," the giant said sincerely.

Witnessing this, the Adeptus Custodes Marshal's emotions vanished in an instant.

The moment the magnificent, heavy golden doors were closed, the banquet officially began. To Fulgrim's surprise, there were very few dishes on the table, and they were all unfamiliar to him.

In the past, he would have paid close attention, even inquired—after all, the banquet's cuisine could, to some extent, reflect their father's preferences.

But now... he was simply silent.

He leaned back in his chair without a word, as silent as Ferrus Manus. The latter sat beside him, neither inquiring nor seeking eye contact.

He simply existed—and that was enough.

Ferrus was always patient.

But someone was not.

"Father?" Rogal's voice rang out from the other end of the long table. "Are these new dishes developed by the chefs? They look quite delicious."

"No," the Emperor said calmly. "They have existed for a very long time."

"And these utensils too, Father?" Rogal Dorn asked.

He was dressed in a predominantly white and blue outfit, the collar buttoned up tightly. Beneath his short, graying hair, his eyes gazed thoughtfully.

In his hands, he held two long wooden sticks. For an ordinary mortal, they might be considered weapons, but in the hands of a demigod like him, they could only serve as eating utensils.

The Emperor nodded slowly.

"I'm guessing they were just made, Father?" Rogal asked, his tone eager, as if desperate for approval.

His father nodded again, confirming Rogal's question. Rogal immediately smiled and quietly explained to Konrad Curze beside him.

"These utensils feel smooth, but they don't have the carvings found on forks and knives. Also, I've never seen them before. So I knew they must have just been made."

Konrad Curze nodded. "They're called chopsticks."

Rogal blinked in surprise.

"W-what?" he asked, blinking. "Brother, what did you just say?"

"Chopsticks. That's their name," Curze said. "Karyl used them before."

Upon hearing this, a man of normal stature beside him tilted his head helplessly yet unremarkably—and after that, all eyes, except for the Emperor's, turned to his face.

If this were an ordinary mortal, he would have started trembling by now.

But he did not.

Kael Lohars nodded slowly. "Yes, my esteemed Primarchs, it is called chopsticks."

"No offense intended—but how could you possibly know that?" Lorgar asked, frowning.

As he spoke, his eyes kept darting toward his father, yet the Emperor merely tasted some meat lifted from the clear broth, his expression calm, seemingly unconcerned with what was happening here.

"I have used them before," Kael said calmly. "Konrad has already mentioned it, hasn't he?"

Across the table, Rogal Dorn narrowed his eyes. This familiar way of speaking gave him a strange sense of déjà vu.

However, for one, Kael Lohars could not be the kind of person he was currently suspecting, given that he had been able to teach their brother to be so kind.

And for another, he did not believe anyone would truly dare to imitate him in the presence of the Emperor.

"You have used them?" Lorgar straightened his back in surprise. "But—"

"—Enough, Lorgar," the Emperor interrupted with majestic authority. "Our guest has not eaten any food until now, yet you have already asked him several questions."

He paused for a moment, looked at Lorgar, and then shook his head.

Beyond that, he said nothing more.

The giant with golden skin nodded reluctantly, picked up the utensils called chopsticks, and began to wield them with instinctive ease.

A silent meal continued for a while. Kael used the chopsticks calmly but clumsily, and the way he picked up his food drew Lorgar's close attention.

Upon seeing those awkward movements, the latter could not help but smile for a fleeting moment; though it vanished in a flash, Curze caught it nonetheless.

Kael noticed this and had to nudge his shin with his heavy boot to keep Curze from doing something he shouldn't.

But in the end, not everyone wanted to remain silent.

After a deep breath, Fulgrim slowly stood up.

"Mr. Kael Lohars," he said, head bowed. His neatly combed silver hair was tied back, and his handsome face was now shrouded in a somber gloom.

He spoke in a low voice.

"I wish to apologize to you."

Lorgar's eyes widened, Ferrus shook his head as expected, and Rogal Dorn listened in silence. The Emperor continued to taste his food.

Kael glanced sideways at the Night Haunter, who turned his head away, said nothing, and casually placed his chopsticks on the table.

+Mr. Neos.+

+I will not intervene; this is a matter between you all.+

Kael pursed his lips. He had to stand up—or, to be precise, jump down from the chair that allowed him to reach the table—and then respond to Fulgrim.

"The reason?" he asked, his attitude so calm that it abruptly made Lorgar feel a surge of irritation. He masked it well, but Konrad Curze caught it nonetheless.

The latter glanced at him again.

"Because of my arrogance," Fulgrim said, head bowed. "I harmed your foster son, my brother."

"He was never my foster son; there is no such relationship between us."

"But you raised him."

"We were merely partners working on the same task."

Rogal Dorn glanced at Konrad Curze, who was unexpectedly calm at this moment—there was not a ripple in those eyes; he felt nothing at Kael's words.

Dorn frowned.

"I would like to interrupt, my apologies."

He also stood up and asked sternly, "Fulgrim, what is the meaning of this? Father is hosting this banquet to welcome the return of our brothers, and yet you are here apologizing to his foster father?"

"A collaborator."

"A title is just a title; the substantive relationship is what matters most," Dorn said. "Mr. Kael, you should be clear on this."

Kael raised his eyebrows slowly—this was somewhat beyond his expectations.

He only knew the names of these Primarchs, and he had learned them only shortly before the banquet began, told to him by a servant standing on tiptoe on the steps, full of pride and arrogance. He had never imagined that among these demigods, there would be one so...

Direct?

He smiled slightly.

"Because I hurt the feelings of our brother, Rogal."

Pain flashed in Fulgrim's violet eyes. The giant sitting beside him, who possessed a pair of silver arms, sighed imperceptibly. He did not look at him, yet he seemed to know everything.

"Just as you said, Rogal, one should apologize when they have done wrong, should they not? And that is what I am doing now. I cannot think of a more solemn occasion than this banquet; I must use it to express my apologies."

Fulgrim stubbornly raised his head: "I must, Rogal, I must."

+You really don't intend to—+

+Yes, at a moment like this, I should not speak out to stop or mediate; I should be an impartial observer.+

Kael sighed.

"So, this is likely a misunderstanding," he said, his expression unreadable.

His High Gothic was now entirely devoid of any accent, and paired with his current appearance, he seemed as noble as any lord or governor. "And misunderstandings are always easy to resolve, aren't they, Konrad?"

"."

Under his gaze, Konrad Curze—or the Night Haunter—finally stood up with great reluctance.

Lorgar Aurelian stared at this scene, dumbfounded.

A quick note on the launch: it goes live on 7/1, at which point I will release thirty chapters in a burst.