In reality, however, Perturabo faced something else entirely.
Before him stood his Sister, Calliphone.
That cliff, that dying Rogal Dorn.
All of it was an illusion, a lie painstakingly woven by Unasis.
In the real world, Perturabo stood in the center of the great hall. Before him was a thick metal pillar, with a frail, haggard figure chained to it.
It was a woman in ragged clothes, her disheveled hair spilling over her shoulders, her face smeared with dust and blood.
This was another trap Unasis had laid.
It had disguised Calliphone as one of the people Perturabo hated most.
Rogal Dorn, Primarch of the Imperial Fists. The brother who enjoyed the Emperor's favor, who opposed Perturabo in matters of strategy, who argued endlessly with him at every military council.
Unasis knew all too well the jealousy in Perturabo's heart—his jealousy of Dorn, buried beneath that iron exterior, real despite his refusal to acknowledge it.
It knew Perturabo envied Dorn for receiving the Emperor's personal instruction, for building those magnificent Palaces and fortresses on Terra, for the esteem and respect he enjoyed throughout the Imperium.
Perturabo was jealous of Rogal Dorn.
So what would happen if he killed his brother with his own hands, only to discover that he had actually killed his Sister?
What expression would Perturabo wear?
Even Unasis dared not imagine it, but it eagerly anticipated the sight.
It continued watching the scene with relish, its consciousness like a viper lurking in the shadows, secretly observing Perturabo's every movement, every expression, every hesitation.
It was intensely curious. Would Perturabo kill his brother out of jealousy, making the same choice as a man named Daedalus tens of thousands of years ago?
That craftsman from Greek mythology who had pushed his own nephew from a high tower out of