A Cold God, Chapter 39

Horus Lupercal left soon afterward, returning to his own ship and his own war. When the echoes of his departure had faded, I remained in the quiet of my chambers and considered the weight of what he had said.

The first thing I understood was that Horus had no true authority over me. He could not order me to march, and he could not compel my Legion to act. If he had held that authority, he would have sent a messenger or a direct command. Instead, he had come himself, which meant his presence was a request rather than an order. It also meant the Emperor had deliberately withheld me from the front lines, keeping me away from the wars my brothers fought. If Horus’s account was true, then Father was saving me for something else, some future conflict that only he foresaw.

At the same time, the urgency of Horus’s words was impossible to ignore. He had not crossed the stars merely to exchange greetings. He had not spent his time and resources on ceremony. He came because the Imperium was bleeding. He came because the Rangdan were killing my brothers and their Legions, and because he believed I was the one who could counter them.

That alone was enough to make me reconsider my place. My sibling Primarchs were dying, not in single battles, but in entire campaigns. Their sons were being lost by the thousands. And alongside them, the mortal soldiers of the Imperial Army were being slaughtered in equal measure, which meant ordinary men and women were dying in the millions. Horus’s plea carried the weight of those lives, and I could not ignore that.

I thought of the Emperor’s silence. Perhaps Father intended for me to remain here until the time he considered right. Perhaps he had other plans for me that he had not shared. Or perhaps he had simply forgotten me in the press of wars spreading across the galaxy. I had no way of knowing. His reasoning was not mine to read. That meant I couldn’t personally go there–not in my Icewalker form, at least, and I couldn’t send any of my Astartes to fight there either. 

However, there was a way for me to do both—to be here and to fight out there. After all, I was not confined to a single body. I was not limited to a single physical shell.

Doing so, however, would require the use of my Void Self—my truest and most powerful aspect, which wasn’t really a “form” per se. It was just… me. It was the very heart of me—the endless darkness, the end of all things. All I needed was an avatar, a new one strong enough for me to channel a good chunk of my powers through.

Luckily, creating an entirely new avatar from scratch would not be a problem. It would be an entity made entirely of True Ice, capable of channeling my powers of ice, cold, and death. I could shape its limbs, lock in conduits for my will, and harden its core until it took orders without hesitation. I would bind seals to regulate the flow of power so the medium did not shatter under strain.

The real problem was getting this avatar to the Rangdan Xenocide, which was several light years away. My Void Self was technically omnipresent—nothingness existed everywhere—but it could only act through mediums, at least for now. I had the sense that I might learn to move it without vessels, to bridge distances with less mundane effort, but I had not reached that skill. For the moment, I would use ordinary interstellar logistics.

My fleet would have to remain in-system to avoid drawing the Emperor’s attention, but I could order a ship already scheduled for the xenocide to divert briefly. I was a Primarch. Admirals followed direct commands. I would name the ship, seal the avatar in a reinforced hold, and give strict orders about crew composition and security. If the vessel arrived intact, the avatar would step into the battle under my control. That plan would have to be precise and quiet. There could be no mistakes.

And so I did just that. With a single command, Commander Lokir Amarith sent the message to the fleet, ordering them to divert briefly to my planet. Their admiral complied because I was a Primarch; obedience to my orders was an established fact. I told my sons—my Legionnaires—exactly what I intended. Many wanted to go in person to the Rangdan Xenocide. They wanted to fight in the open, shoulder to shoulder with their primarch. I did not refuse them outright, but I made the terms plain: the legion would remain here until we received formal orders. We would not scatter on my say-so alone. That settled, I turned my attention to the work itself.

Creating an avatar of True Ice was a deliberate, controlled process. True Ice did not behave like ordinary material. Only I and those I had taught could shape it. It did not melt or change temperature when exposed to heat. A block of True Ice could sit inside a furnace and remain whole. Machines could not shape it; tools could only assist. The will had to do the forming.

I began with a blank mass of formed will. I set the contours of a human body and pushed the substance into anatomical planes—shoulders, chest, joints—until the outline read like a body. At first the figure was ten feet tall. I tested its ability to conduct the void: I threaded a small tendril of power through its spine and watched for stress fractures in the lattice. It failed. The channels could not carry the strain; fissures spidered along the limbs when I forced more of myself through. I stopped, rebuilt the lattice, and thickened the conduits.

I enlarged the frame, adding mass to the chest and shoulders, reinforcing the joints with denser braids of True Ice. I tuned the internal passages for flow, carving runes and stabilizing seals with steady hands. I inscribed control sigils where neural links would attach. I tempered the core by feeding short pulses of void until the center held without distorting. Each adjustment required testing. Each test required a pause to repair microfractures and reassert the seals.

When the avatar reached twenty feet, the conduits held. The limb articulations answered to my will without shudder. It stood in the forgewell like a constructed sentinel—balanced, proportioned, and capable of channeling a large portion of my power. My sons watched the whole time. They took notes with their eyes and their hands, watching and learning–educating themselves.

Final steps were practical. I fitted reinforced collars and mounting rings so the ship could secure the avatar for transit. I carved secondary control ports for an emergency manual override and bolted containment nodes to the shoulders and pelvis so the carrier could hold it steady during acceleration and combat maneuvers. I issued strict instructions about crew selection and manifest. No curious officers. No public logs. The vessel that would carry the avatar would receive a sealed manifest and orders to submit all telemetry only to my command.

When the work was done, the avatar did not look like an art object. It looked like an instrument. It could move, bear force, and carry the void. That was all it needed to be. My sons continued their drills and their training on the creation and shaping of True Ice. I finalized the transfer protocol and sent the last set of commands to Lokir. The plan depended on precision and silence.

By then, the only real thing left to do was to actually test it. So, I did just that. I dedicated a portion of my consciousness and sent it into the construct. Suddenly becoming gigantic was an interesting experience. But otherwise, I knew immediately that this new gigantic form could channel nearly as much power as my Icewalker Form, without cracking apart from the burden. That much power was enough to freeze the surface of worlds. Hopefully, that much power would be enough to fight the Rangdan. The first thing I tested was its ability to actually communicate. 

Luckily, I could speak through it with not much problem, though I had to really hold back as the construct’s voice would’ve otherwise held enough power to unleash cyclonic winds and blistering blizzards that could break and freeze entire mountain ranges if I wasn’t careful with my control. However, I was confident that I could control it well enough to communicate with my fellow Primarchs if need be. Being around it would be absolutely freezing, but communication would certainly remain possible. I didn’t want to just send a mute giant to the front lines. I was still a Primarch, after all. 

It moved under my will. I flexed its fingers and felt the calibrated resistance of the joints. I made it perform a series of motions to test balance and control. It leapt and landed. It vaulted over an obstacle and rolled to absorb impact. It executed somersaults and precise pivots that showed the articulation systems held stable.

For its size, it was fast and strong. I pushed more of myself through the conduits to test upper limits. The seals held. The lattice expanded and relaxed on command. Only once I was satisfied with its mobility and durability did I move to prep it for transit.

I ordered the hold cleared and the transfer clamps fitted. Crewmen bolted harnesses to its shoulders and hips, and technicians ran final checks on containment nodes. I issued sealed orders for the receiving vessel: no deviations, no public logs, and direct telemetry only to my command. Then I gave the command to secure the construct into the cargo bay. The vessel accepted the load and sealed. The avatar waited inside the hold, stabilized and ready, to be carried into the Rangdan Xenocides. My sons and I watched as the diverted fleet sped away before activating their Warp Drives and disappearing. 

“What now, father?” Zalir asked. “Do we continue to wait for the Emperor’s orders?”

I shrugged. “We don’t have a choice. We’re soldiers and we’re supposed to follow orders. That construct was the best I could offer on a short notice.” 

I turned to him. “You will continue your training for as long as necessary. Perhaps, by the time the Emperor actually sends us to do something–anything–you and your brothers will have such a masterful grasp over your powers that nothing can ever stand against you.” 

Zalir nodded. “As you command, father.” 

“I will be in my quarters. Ensure that no one disturbs me, unless there are orders from the Emperor himself.” In the meantime, I was gonna have to figure out this omnipresence thing of mine. And, in general, maybe start paying more attention to my Void Self, because that endless nothingness–as dreary as the thought might’ve been–was the true me. “I’m leaving Thell in charge of managing the world in my stead. And you are in charge of the legion.” 

I sent that thought through all the minds of all my Astartes so that they knew exactly what to do while I reconnected with myself. Once I was in the privacy of my chambers, I left my Icewalker form and retreated into my Void Self, making sure to keep it sealed so that none of my sons could follow me into that Void. I needed absolute silence. I needed–

What the hell was that? 

There was something alien flying through me. 

I turned my full attention to the alien thing and saw that it was a ship. It wasn’t an Imperium ship. It was crescent-shaped and covered in glowing green lines. It was also struggling to actually fly through me as the nothingness that I was made of almost seemed to want to consume it. With what would’ve been the equivalent of a raised brow, I pulled back that nothingness and allowed the ship to pass unmolested, watching it disappear into a rift into realspace. 

What the hell?