Though both sat upon the Golden Throne, the Emperor could still maintain his form, while Magnus was truly in a state of utter misery.
As the strongest Primarch after Vulkan, not a trace of muscle remained beneath his skin.
His loose skin hung directly from his skeleton. Only his single eye retained some traces of flesh, while the other eye he had sacrificed to Tzeentch was now nothing but an empty socket, horrifying to behold.
Magnus was burning—literally burning. He had truly become fuel for the Golden Throne, falling miserably from the lofty pedestal he had once occupied.
Magnus had been born incomparably noble. From the moment of his birth, he had been the son of the Lord of Humanity. After falling upon Prospero with that Warp storm, he had been revered by that world of Psykers as a gift from heaven.
The renowned Psyker scholar Amon and other scholars had taught and raised him, making him one of the greatest figures in the world.
After returning to the Imperium, Magnus had been granted the Fifteenth Legion. He became a Primarch, one of the Imperium's greatest generals, racing alongside his brothers through the expedition to restore humanity to greatness.
Even when he had been forced to turn to the Warp in the war against Leman Russ, Magnus had still received the attention and generous treatment of the Changer of Ways. It had even tempted him to become a Daemon Prince; if he had been willing, he could have completed the ascension ritual in the next instant.
He had seemed forever elevated above all others, forever arrogant, treating everything with boundless pride and contempt.
He truly had the right to be proud. Magnus was a demigod walking the world, possessing divine power and knowledge.
But he had forgotten that he had