Interlude 13: The Serpent's Crawl

Omegon sprang from his bed.

Ever since voluntarily boarding the Grand Inquisitor, he had never moved so swiftly. With caution bordering on servility, he had carefully controlled his body, ensuring that every moment he spent aboard this ship remained entirely under his control.

Mortals could do the same, though it required immense effort and years of practice—and they did it to make themselves stronger. But Omegon was different. He did it to make himself weaker. On this ship, he had to obediently raise his head and expose his unprotected throat.

That was difficult for a primarch, or for anyone with dignity, to accept. Within the Imperium, the saying "a scholar may be killed but not humiliated" had countless variations, yet at its root, it all came down to one word.

Honor.

Throughout his life, Omegon had never cared about such a thing.

Do not misunderstand. He had never looked down on it, and he knew how important it was. Whenever planning an operation that would stain his hands with innocent blood, he would even take the trouble to consider how to make their deaths more meaningful. A soldier who died in battle and one who vanished without a sound on a day without war would leave behind entirely different reputations—and their families would receive entirely different pensions.

But caring about the honor of others and caring about one's own were hardly the same thing.

He did this only so that, during the reckoning to come, he could secure a few political bargaining chips for his Legion.

When the lives of his sons were placed upon the scales, anything that could make them even slightly more useful was worth fighting for in advance.

Of course, that was far too feeble an excuse.

He knew that himself.

Omegon slowly walked to the