"This is the gift I prepared for you, Horus."
Before the thunderous cries of "Long live!" had fully subsided, while the radiant afterglow of the coronation still lingered in the air, the Emperor's voice rang out again, calm and clear. Like a smooth piece of jade dropped into a boiling lake, it instantly settled the tumult and drew every eye back to the summit of the dais.
He no longer faced the crowd, but turned toward Horus beside him, newly crowned with the Laurel Wreath and still swept up in emotion.
The Master of Mankind slowly raised his hands and produced a weapon from somewhere unseen.
It was a warhammer.
It was not absurdly enormous, but its proportions were perfect, imbued with a sense of strength.
The hammer was forged from a metal as dark as the core of a star, with faint glimmers flowing across its surface.
The Emperor cradled the warhammer in both hands as though holding up a sacred relic, then slowly offered it to Horus.
"This weapon is named Worldbreaker."
The Emperor's voice echoed across the silent dais, every word seeming to carry a metallic resonance.
"It was forged... by my own hands." The Emperor's gaze rested on the warhammer before shifting to Horus. Within that gaze lay something deeper than craftsmanship: devotion, hope, the act of creation through which he had fused his own will and strength into the weapon.
"The furnace's flames, the cold waters of tempering, the whispers of the inscriptions... I had a hand in all of them. It is more than a weapon, Horus."
The Emperor extended the warhammer a little farther.
"It is my gift to you. A gift to the Warmaster, a gift to... my Centaurus."
To Horus, the Emperor's words instantly elevated the meaning of Worldbreaker.
It was