The Cursed King, Chapter 54

“The trial that you are about to undertake is classified above all authority, even above the authority of your Gene-father. You shall utter not a single word to any soul, be they beloved or otherwise. I will have your oaths, Librarians. Swear upon your own names.” 

Lord Malcador’s voice echoed through Shahedra’s mind–a voice beyond voice. Beside him, Captain Ahriman shifted a moment. They did not speak with words or with their minds. They weren’t allowed to. And they couldn’t, even if they tried. This place was warded by powers far greater than any they’d come across before–greater even than what Lord Magnus could conjure, which meant it had to be the work of the Emperor himself. The other Librarians and practitioners of Warp-Craft from all the other Legionnes Astartes stood with them in the darkened chamber, stripped of their armor, the absence of which made it difficult to tell who came from where, though the Fenrisians were painfully unsubtle. 

Their Gene-Father, Lord Magnus, did not forbid the keeping of personal secrets; what he forbade, instead, was the selfishness of keeping secret knowledge that could otherwise benefit the legion or the Imperium as a whole.

Shahedra raised a hand and placed it over his heart. He recognized the act for what it was. Lord Magnus taught it to them, after all. It was a Binding Vow, an ability that came naturally to those who were born in the Immaterium and to Jujutsu Sorcerers. For regular Sorcerers, like himself, the creation of a Binding Vow required rather complicated means, though it depended on the nature of said vow. In this case, a vow to the self was easily performed; Shahedra honestly didn’t even have to do anything. “I swear on my name, that I shall not utter a word of this trial to anyone.” 

All his fellows uttered the same words–or the same intentions. 

“Enchain.” Lord Malcador uttered a single word and Shahedra felt an immediate power taking hold over him, like spectral chains wrapping over his soul. “A Binding Vow has been made; those among you who break their oath of secrecy shall forfeit their lives.” 

Shahedra nodded to himself. He wondered what sort of horrors he’d need to endure, then, for the trial to be so secretive. For the sake of the Thousand Sons, for the sake of his brothers, he would succeed… he would endure. He turned to Captain Ahriman and nodded. His brother nodded back. Lord Malcador led them into another chamber. This one was even darker than the last–about as close to pitch black as one’s surroundings could get, so dark that he could only barely make out the near-invisible silhouettes of the other Astartes.

“Within this chamber,” Lord Malcador said. “All of you will be tested as one. Those who fail will die. Those who succeed will begin training at once. We have little time to waste. Steel your minds, your bodies, your souls, and your hearts. Resist and fight for humanity, for your legion, and for yourselves. Goodluck.” 

Shahedra breathed in. He did not know what to expect. But Lord Malcador’s cryptic words led him to the belief that the test to come was one of mind and spirit. So, he closed his eyes and focused both. Something moved and groaned in the dark, like a great and terrible beast rousing from its sleep. None of them had weapons and their powers were blocked–somehow. No, this was no physical test. There was no monster for them to defeat with their bare hands, though Shahedra suspected the Fenrisians would be excited at the prospect of such a thing, their simple minds unable to comprehend higher and deeper mysteries beyond drinking and fighting and feasting.

The Immaterium, as Lord Magnus taught them, was a place filled with danger and corruption; those who entered with their minds unguarded would almost certainly be assailed by the wild and hungry denizens of that place–spiritual beings who craved the mental energies of the living. The King of Curses, the Primarch Ryomen Sukuna, referred to such creatures as Cursed Spirits; Lord Magnus called them the Neverborn. And so, they learned to focus their minds, to clear their thoughts of all doubt and fear, to take without being taken, to harness and control the power of the Immaterium to their own benefit. Shahedra was, admittedly, one of the last to master the ability, but he mastered it, nonetheless. He mastered himself and his abilities, even his own limitations. 

And there was nothing now for him to fear. 

He breathed in and, in the next moment, something dark and twisted and unimaginably powerful pulled him into an even darker darkness. Shahedra screamed as the face of something utterly Daemonic turned and loomed over him, immediately overwhelming and breaking apart his defenses. He screamed, but he had no mouth with which to do so. 

....

Ryomen Sukuna, Primarch of the Devourers Legionnes Astartes, raised a brow as all the Librarians began screaming, even the ones who were previously thought to have the most potential of the bunch. All of them fell to their knees or fell to the ground entirely, clutching their heads as bile and saliva rushed from their throats and out of their mouths. Then again, such a reaction was ultimately understandable. All things considered, Skarbrand was up there among the most powerful of Cursed Spirits and to share in just a portion of his mind was to partake in a flood of endless rage and bloodlust–too much for any human, Astartes or otherwise, to fully and truly comprehend without almost immediately breaking. However, if one was strong enough in will and mind, then it certainly was possible to resist the anger, to fight back against the tide. 

With enough strength and mental and spiritual fortitude, it was possible to not be affected at all, which was precisely what happened to Sukuna when he, briefly, shared his mind with the fullness of Skarbrand’s being. He’d stood there, unbowed and unmoved. Sukuna himself was not entirely sure why he was utterly unaffected. In fact, he hadn’t felt anything when it happened. Malcador said it had been due to his overwhelming and infinite sense of self, which prevented the magnitude of Skarbrand’s being from finding even the smallest foothold upon Sukuna’s soul, which sounded quite right, he supposed. 

The Cursed Spirit had been so thoroughly entertained by the surprise that he, quite simply, agreed to collaborate without much of a fuss. 

“What happens if all of them fail?” Sukuna asked, crossing his four arms over his chest. Watching the Psykers flail and scream was amusing for about a minute and then it just turned kind of sad, really. Most of them did not possess a strong sense of self that was inherent to Jujutsu Sorcerers as most legions simply did not foster or even encourage individuality as Sukuna did with his Devourers. “Surely, you two have contingencies in place if that happened?” 

The Emperor shrugged and so did Malcador. It was the former of the two who deigned to give him an answer. “Then they all die. Simple as that.” 

Sukuna raised a brow. “Just like that? I do not fail to see the necessity of this, but isn’t that… wasteful?” 

“It was the birth of Psykers that first led to the fracturing of humanity,” Malcador said, sighing. “There can be no compromise in quality. If they fail, then that is it; they cannot be allowed to fight in the legions. But, I do not doubt that at least more than half of them will prevail. Skarbrand hardly pays them any attention and is–in fact–dormant.” 

The Emperor hummed and nodded. Here, where there was no one else to see them, the Emperor did not bother with illusions. The black haired man who sat and drank a cup of something hot did not look at all like the most powerful psyker in the Galaxy, but Sukuna felt the Emperor’s power and it certainly did not diminish with the form he’d chosen to take. He smirked, eyes aglow like gold. “A few of them have already succeeded.” 

Sukuna turned and looked and beheld a grand total of three legionnaires rising from the ground, their eyes wide and bloodshot, trickles of crimson streaming from their eyes, nose, and mouth as they breathed raggedly. “Huh, would you look at that; they actually got through it.” 

Venaril Tyrod stood amid the darkness, gasping. His shoulders trembled, his lungs raw. He pressed a hand against his forehead, knuckles wet with blood from a shallow cut that traced down his temple. A haze swam across his vision, remnants of the horrors he had just witnessed. He forced himself to remain upright, focusing on the faint lines of stone under his feet.

The chamber had been pitch-black. The only point of reference was the sensation—a flood of fury, scorching and endless, that clawed at every corner of his mind. When it struck, he felt as though a massive beast had roared inside his skull, its roar quaking the marrow in his bones. Skarbrand’s rage: that was the name they’d whispered. There was no gentleness in that red daemon’s presence, no mercy. Venaril had almost fallen, kneeling, teeth gritted so hard they threatened to crack.

He recalled the moment the presence surged, filling his head with blinding crimson. He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. It was only a swirl of hate that pounded his thoughts. Images of war and butchery flashed like stuttering reels. Limbs torn, bodies reduced to steaming gore. Senseless violence. An unstoppable craving for bloodshed. He’d twitched, arms stiff at his sides, a scream trapped in his throat. The pressure had grown, an engine of wrath grinding him down. He’d nearly let go—nearly collapsed into madness.

Yet he clung. In that instant, a mental reflex sparked: an echo of his Chapter’s old rites, the warm memory of the Baalite sands. He pictured the midday sun over the rad-scarred deserts, the blazing light that cast long shadows behind a proud warrior. He felt the hum of the Blood Angels’ legacy, that fine balance of discipline and artistry that gave them purpose. Slowly, he wrested control, forging a barrier in his mind. Shudder after shudder rocked him, but he kept standing.

Now, moments after the onslaught receded, he lifted his gaze, spotting two figures. One was Ahzek Ahriman—recognizable by the faint brand of a Thousand Sons script on his bare shoulder. The other, a Salamander of towering build, dark skin gleaming with sweat, a drake-scale ring around his neck. Neither wore armor, but each bore subtle markings on their forearms that hinted at their Legion’s identity. Both men also stood, shaky but upright. The rest lay sprawled, groaning or unconscious.

Venaril blinked away the last motes of red that danced at the edges of his sight. He exhaled, the copper tang of blood on his lips. He coughed once, tasting iron. Ahriman turned, meeting his gaze. They exchanged a silent nod—no words passed, yet the flicker in Ahriman’s eyes spoke of shared relief. The Salamander watched them as well, a faint motion in his throat as though trying to swallow dryness.

From the gloom behind them, a figure detached, stepping closer. The scrape of a staff on stone. Malcador. He halted just beyond the ring of prone bodies. Another shape stood near him: Ryomen Sukuna, arms folded, face impassive. Past Sukuna, Venaril caught the Emperor’s outline, though the light remained too faint to see His expression.

Malcador’s staff tapped softly. 

“You three remain standing. That is enough for now. Congratulations on being the first to succeed.” His voice carried across the silent space, low and firm. “Skarbrand has shown you a fraction of his tempest. You endured. You may proceed to the next chamber and rest, while we wait for the others.”

Venaril swallowed, rubbing grit from his eyes. He stepped forward with measured caution, body still rigid from residual tension. The Salamander did the same, shoulders squared. Ahriman brushed away beads of sweat on his brow, exhaling a slow breath. And, when the three of them walked together, they did not know that they would become brothers.