The Cursed King, Chapter 60

The sky hung dim and gray over the barren earth. Wind blew across the flats in long, low breaths, lifting dry strands of sand and laying them down again a moment later in slow coils. It moved without hurry. The sun was distant behind the haze, its light dull and tired.

Sukuna crouched. His hand pressed into the grit, fingers curling. The sand was fine and warm, clinging to his skin before falling away. He drew a slow handful and stood, dust shifting down the length of his wrist. The weight of it wasn’t much, but he held it like something to be judged.

Horus stood across from him, still. There was no armor between them, no helms, no ceramite. They had come alone. Cloth wrapped their forms in the dull tones of travelers. No sigils. No rank. Only the weight of what they were.

High above, the sky trembled with the presence of waiting ships. The Devourers. The Sons of Horus. Orbiting like carrion birds with silent throats. But the world below was quiet. No engines. No boots. No weapons drawn.

Sukuna watched the dust fall from his palm, one grain after another, caught in the slow breath of the wind. His eyes tracked the way it moved, how some of it vanished before it touched ground again. Then he looked across the open ground and said, “You’re absolutely certain this is the best way to go about things?”

His voice was quiet. Not soft. It hung in the air for a moment like the sand itself.

Horus didn’t move. He didn’t answer right away. A thin line of wind caught his tunic and pulled it against his side. His hands were bare and empty. His boots had left shallow prints in the dirt that hadn’t yet begun to fill.

Sukuna flexed his fingers and let the last of the sand slip from his hand. It scattered and was gone. He sighed, not loud, not tired. Just a sound. A breath pulled low in the chest and loosed again without effort.

Across the distance, Horus nodded. A slow tilt of the chin. Nothing grand, nothing forced. The air between them held still.

They were brothers, though no blood bound them. Born of a single will and scattered to the stars, raised on different worlds, shaped by different hands. But they knew each other. In ways men never knew their kin.

Horus nodded. The wind blew his cloak around his legs and he did not move to still it. Dust clung to the hems. He stood as if planted there, as if he meant to remain long after the stars themselves had fallen from the sky. His voice came quiet, but the sound carried.

“I believe it,” he said. “Down to the marrow. Lorgar spoke no falsehood. He gave us his vision and we did not take it on faith. We tested it. We stripped it down and burned it and rebuilt it. Again and again. Years of it. With psykers. With sorcerers. With every means we had. And still it held.”

Sukuna didn’t speak. His gaze stayed fixed. A wind picked up and blew grit past their feet. He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulder once, slow and absent.

Horus went on. “The Golden Path is real. There’s no other way forward.”

Sukuna’s brow twitched. He drew in a breath through his nose and let it out through his teeth.

“You understand,” he said, “what it costs if you go through with this.”

Horus said nothing. Sukuna stepped forward. His sandals sank into the sand with a crunch.

“You understand what this does to the Imperium. To humanity.” He lifted his hand and let it fall again. “You understand this ends in fire. In ash. Ten thousand years of silence where once there was light.”

Horus closed his eyes. His lips pressed together, bloodless. He nodded once.

“It will wound him,” Sukuna said. “The one you call father, the Emperor. It will drive a knife into the heart of everything he built. You know this. You do it anyway?”

“I do.”

There was no tremor in his voice. No pause. Good. He knew Horus abhorred the very idea of even rebelling against the Emperor. That he still would do so spoke volumes of his conviction.

Sukuna’s head tilted.

“You think he’ll thank you for it?”

Horus looked at the ground. He scraped his boot against the dust.

“I think he will understand. One day.”

A silence passed between them. Not empty. Full of weight. The sun slid lower in the sky. The wind kept moving.

“He made us,” Horus said. “Not for war. Not for conquest. Those are means. Not ends. We are tools. All of us. You, me. The Astartes. The Imperium. Tools to guard something greater.”

“And if the tool breaks?”

“Then it served its purpose.”

Sukuna stood still for a moment longer, then shrugged.

“Let’s say I go along with it,” he said. “Let’s say I believe you. The galaxy burns, the Emperor falls, the sons scatter to the wind. Fine.” 

He turned his head, spat into the dust. “I don’t care. I never did. Not about people. Not about causes.”

He stepped forward again. Horus didn’t flinch.

“I care about one thing.”

Horus waited.

“I want to be entertained. Death will come for all of us–me included. All that lives will die, even the ones that think themselves immortal. What I want is to have fun before I bite teh dust”

There was a twitch at the edge of Horus’ mouth. Not a smile. Something else.

“Lorgar said you’d want that.”

Sukuna grinned. “Did he now?”

“He said you would ask what’s in it for you.”

Sukuna spread all four of his arms.

“Well?”

“You’ll get your fight,” Horus said. “A man born from another world. One who sees the weave of time and cuts it like cloth, who bends the fabric of space to his bidding. He walks between realms. Between humanity and something far older.”

Sukuna’s eyes narrowed.

“Six eyes,” Horus said. “None blind. He’ll see you coming, and he won’t turn away. He won’t beg. He won’t run. He won’t die easily. At least, that’s what Lorgar said.”

Sukuna’s mouth twitched. The wind lifted the ends of his robes and whipped them behind him.

“This man,” Horus said. “He is your equal. In strength. In will. In madness. You’ll fight, and the stars will hold their breath to watch. One of you dies. Or maybe both.”

The silence stretched. Sukuna’s shoulders rolled once more.

Then a low chuckle. Short. Sharp.

“You should’ve just led with that.”

Horus smiled. This time, fully. No joy in it. Just the shape.

Sukuna stood still and breathed deep. The air was thin here. Clean and sharp and baked in heat. He held it in his lungs like it meant something. Then let it go.

“You know what?” he said. His voice low, stripped of ceremony. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll play my part.”

The words came like something already decided. He didn’t look at Horus as he spoke. His gaze wandered the open land, the wind-carved hills and the dry ridges and the endless pale dust that stretched out in every direction like some vast undone grave.

“But you understand what that means,” he said. “Sooner or later, you and I are going to tear each other apart. And when that happens, it won’t be quick. It won’t be clean.”

Horus didn’t flinch. The sun had dropped lower. His shadow reached toward Sukuna’s feet and stopped just short.

“I welcome it,” Horus said. “It’s been long since I stood across from you in battle. I’ve changed since then. Grown.” 

A pause. “I’ve mastered my Jujutsu–every single aspect of it.”

Sukuna turned toward him. His mouth crooked, but no smile came. “You won’t survive it.”

“I know,” Horus said. “But it won’t be you who ends me.”

Sukuna’s brows lifted. A flicker of amusement, or disbelief. Hard to say. 

“No?”

“No. Father will kill me.”

Sukuna’s shoulders shifted and he crossed all four of his arms over his chest. 

“You mean to wound him,” he said. “Mortally. Damage him so deeply that he slips into something close to death. A hollow thing. A husk. That’s the only way this works.”

Horus gave no answer at first. He looked out into the haze beyond, where the heat blurred the edges of the earth. Then he nodded.

“You better have something good planned,” Sukuna said. “Because I’ve fought the Emperor. Many times. And I haven’t wounded him even once–maybe scratches at most. If he’d wanted to kill me, he would have–very easily. I’m not ashamed to say it.”

He crouched, ran a hand through the sand again. Let it fall. Grain by grain. “He’s not the only one you’ll have to worry about too.” 

“Vulkan’s stronger than me,” Sukuna continued. “In raw power. In endurance. But I’m faster. Smarter. Dirtier. And even I couldn’t bring him down.”

“I know what we’re up against,” Horus said. “I know what we must do.”

Sukuna stood again. His smile was gone.

“And you’ll die,” he said. Not a question. A statement.

Horus gave no answer. Just nodded once. No hesitation in it.

“Our side,” he said. “We’ve already chosen. We know what we are. Half of us will fall. Cut down in fire or turned to dust. The rest will vanish. Not hiding. Just gone. Names spoken only in curses or prayers, if spoken at all.”

Sukuna said nothing.

“And you,” Horus added. “You’ll be sealed. Broken. Lost.”

Sukuna looked at him. 

“Most of me, anyway,” he said. “Pieces will remain. Enough to whisper through the cracks.”

Sukuna’s hands opened, fingers spread, palms to the sky. Siphoning most of his power into his fingers was going to be a pain in the ass, because there really was no guarantee that he was getting any of them back after then thousand years. But, if things went well, then his fingers would go on to help the Devourers, the Aeldari, and a few other individuals–all of whom had their own roles to play in the supposed Golden Path that was now betting his cards on. 

“Ten thousand years,” he said. “That’s how long this prophecy runs. Ten thousand years of blood and silence and waiting. That’s a long time to gamble on someone else’s vision.”

Horus did not speak. The wind picked up again, pulled at the folds of their robes. The sky was streaked with red now, the sun melting behind the ridge. The land around them held still. No engines. No war cries. No banners. Only two shapes cut into the dust, their shadows bleeding long into the earth.

After a moment, Horus sighed. “Well… time will pass regardless. If I was going to die, I would like to have died for something far bigger than myself, like the future of humanity. So, when I pass, I’ll do so with a smile on my face.” 

Sukuna nodded. “Alright. I respect your conviction. Get stronger. Muster your forces. Hit us with everything you’ve got. Hold nothing back or this whole masquerade falls apart.” 

Horus smiled. “I know. You should do the same as well. Do make sure to keep this whole thing a secret.” 

“My lips are sealed.” Sukuna smiled back. “Well then, it was nice knowing you, brother. I hope this all pays out in the end.” 

…

“I’ve tracked them,” Sukuna said. His voice was quiet. Even. “To a system called Isstvan.”

The air in the chamber was cold and still. Shadows cast by flickering lumin globes trembled across the stone walls. Before him stood a figure. Not of flesh. A projection. Malcador, wrapped in the pale haze of psychic transmission. His form shimmered faintly at the edges, like heat rising from stone. His eyes were dark and sunken and old in a way few living things could match.

“They’re gathering there,” Sukuna went on. “Horus at the head. He’s not alone.”

Malcador gave no reply. Not yet.

“Martian separatists are with him,” Sukuna said. “A full war-convocation. Titans among them. The Imperial Army too, or a very big chunk of it. Whole segments of the Navy as well. Thousands of ships. Couldn’t count them all. And other things.”

He shifted. Folded his arms across his chest. The silence stretched.

“Other what?” Malcador asked. His voice came from the echo of a thousand kilometers. Dry and thin and lined with wear.

“I don’t know.” Sukuna frowned. “Didn’t linger long enough to find out. Didn’t want to be seen. New civilizations. At least two, maybe three. Not human. Or if they are, not ours. They weren’t afraid to show themselves. That should say enough.”

Malcador closed his eyes. The light from the projection dimmed slightly. His features slumped, but not from motion. From age.

Sukuna said nothing. The lie sat on his tongue like iron. Heavy. Cold. But necessary. That was the word he’d chosen. Necessary.

Lying to Malcador almost felt wrong. But his part was written, and he would walk it to the end.

Malcador opened his eyes again.

“Do you believe they can be reasoned with?”

Sukuna’s head tilted slightly. His mouth twisted, not quite a smirk, not quite contempt. He let the question hang in the air a moment longer than needed.

“No idea,” he said at last. “Maybe. But I wouldn’t count on it.”

He stepped forward, the echo of his boots dull against the stone.

“If it were up to me,” he said, “I’d strike now. Hard. While their boots are still sinking into the dirt. Let none of them get back up. Questions can wait. They always do.”

Malcador’s eyes did not move. His projection wavered.

“But it’s not my call,” Sukuna added. “It never was. That’s for you and the Emperor.”