Malcador

Past

Malcador was still alive.

Malcador, still alive, was not normal.

That was the conclusion Mortarion had reached after spending a thousand years on it.

This story should have been simple: the shattered, hazy Pale Lord stood before the Lord of Macragge. They remained silent for a long time, without a word.

A story of a primarch holding up a collapsing edifice; a story of a Demigod worn away by time and faith; a story of a vast giant slowly rotting away... until they found the true cure.

It should have been like that.

It should have been so.

But another force had intervened in this story, an existence patient enough and chaotic enough to understand the Imperium's bloated, convoluted systems intimately, and to have the patience to arrange all this.

What exactly did he want?

Guilliman spoke calmly, his voice weathered. White hair hung over his temples, and he looked utterly disheveled.

Mortarion shook his head. He did not know the answer. Perhaps it was merely simple malice, simple chaos. Perhaps only The Emperor knew the answer to that question.

He emerged from the altar aboard the Pride of Macragge. White mist rose as Mortarion walked toward the Guilliman who had summoned him.

"I cannot remain for long—but no existence will notice us. I have calculated it."

Mortarion spoke dully. His battle with Sanguinius had worn him down too much.

Guilliman, seated in his chair, sighed. Blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you, my brother... I should... I should have listened to you then."

"It is not too late now."

Mortarion's calm reply choked Guilliman off. Guilliman paused, then wearily changed the subject.

"I have examined the archives. Believe it or not, Mortarion, I am certain this was the work of the former Sigillite. I can