The Cursed King, Chapter 52

A new dawn fell upon Nikaea, and with it, a renewed sense of tension. The grand marble courtyards outside the assembly hall were silent, save for the steady rhythm of custodian boots as they patrolled the perimeter. Dawn’s pale light painted the towering pillars in soft hues, throwing long shadows across the polished floors. Across these floors marched the dignitaries, the envoys, the delegates, each heading toward the looming double-doors that led to the Council’s chamber.

Inside, a hush settled over the gathered Primarchs and their entourages. Torches burned in sconces along the circular walls, illuminating immense frescoes of past Imperial triumphs. The air was thick with expectation. The Emperor had yet to speak a single word in the previous sessions, and his looming silence had weighed on every mind. Today, that would change.

Magnus arrived early. He stood near the dais, conferring softly with Ahriman and a handful of crimson-robed librarians who bore the icon of the Thousand Sons. They had spent half the night compiling final data, testimonies, and logs from their extensive campaigns. Each point was carefully annotated for verification, each witness prepared for cross-examination if needed. Magnus’s single golden eye carried a calm, focused light, though the faint pinch at the corner of his mouth suggested lingering tension.

He turned as Malcador entered, staff tapping a slow cadence against the marble floor. The Sigillite offered Magnus a brief nod, then moved to stand near the elevated throne where the Emperor would preside. Custodians in gleaming gold parted for him, their halberds held in precise symmetry. One gave a subtle tilt of the helmet, acknowledging Malcador’s authority.

Slowly, the other Primarchs assembled. Mortarion stood near the back of the chamber, arms folded, ignoring the eyes that flicked toward his ominous sickle. Othere Wyrdmake approached him, exchanging hushed words in the Fenrisian tongue. Meanwhile, Corvus Corax found a vantage along a side aisle, leaning against a tall pillar with a pensive expression. Ferrus Manus took a seat near the left dais, his metal arms resting on the wide arms of his chair. The other Primarchs, who were still present, sat down in relative silence.

Minutes passed in silence. Then, from behind the dais, a Custodian intoned, “He comes.” 

A gentle hush spread, devouring any half-voiced conversations.

The Emperor entered, clad in radiant gold, his form surpassing even the Primarchs in majesty. His face remained a mask of calm. His eyes, bright with ancient wisdom, swept the chamber. He ascended the steps to the throne without a word, then turned to face those assembled.

Malcador struck his staff once, and the resonance filled every ear. “Let the Council of Nikaea resume. The Emperor shall speak. Let all attend in reverence.”

An absolute stillness followed. Even Mortarion stood straighter, while Othere bowed his head. Magnus inhaled, meeting the Emperor’s gaze, though it took courage to hold that piercing stare.

The Emperor raised a hand, and his voice rolled like distant thunder. “Yesterday, many of those here spoke their truths. Accusations were made. Defenses were offered. I listened in silence. Now, I shall declare my judgment. It is not a condemnation of one or an absolution of another, but the Imperium cannot afford indecision.”

He paused, letting the import of his words seep in. “Magnus. Primarch of the Thousand Sons. Your arguments have merit. I have seen, through your records and your many conquests, that your Legion’s abilities have spared countless lives. I do not ignore this.”

Magnus inclined his head. His staff trembled faintly in his grip, but he remained composed.

The Emperor continued, voice steady. “Yet I cannot dismiss the dangers that sorcery brings. Your own admission confirms that the warp’s mutating influence seeps into you. The Flesh Change among your sons is real. Even discipline does not shield you entirely. Other Legions might follow your path, succumbing to ruin if they overreach.”

A faint stir among the crowd. Mortarion’s lips curved in a tight, grim line. Othere’s knuckles paled around the haft of his staff.

The Emperor lifted his gaze, sweeping it across the assembly. “I have weighed all I have heard. I have considered the counsel of Malcador and the silent pleas of many. I have arrived at two decrees.”

He paused. For a moment, no one dared even shift. The Emperor’s aura pressed down, like a golden sun overhead, regal and absolute.

“First,” he said, “the Librarius, as a formal institution within each Astartes Legion, shall be disbanded temporarily. All formal Librarian programs will cease their operations. All recognized battle-psykers under the Legions are, for the time being, relieved of official duties tied to warp-craft or specialized warpcraft research. This measure shall stand until I judge the Imperium is prepared to handle the consequences of warp manipulation.”

A wave of shock rolled through the chamber. Corvus Corax straightened, his eyes widening. Ferrus Manus exhaled sharply, one metal hand drumming the arm of his seat. Guilliman’s advisors whispered among themselves. Mortarion, though, wore a cold satisfaction. Othere looked triumphant, albeit subdued. The Thousand Sons delegations stiffened, exchanging looks of disbelief. Some pressed lips tight, while Ahriman let out a faint huff of pained acceptance.

Magnus’s grip on his staff tightened. Flames of frustration threatened to surge through him, but he forced calm. This was not an outright ban, he reminded himself, not final condemnation.

The Emperor raised his hand again, quelling the murmurs. “I am not done. The Librarius shall be suspended, but not outlawed completely. I shall not hamper knowledge in perpetuity.” 

He turned his gaze upon Magnus specifically. “Hence the second decree. Every Psyker, in every Legion, must undergo further standardized training. A specialized regimen will be designed by the Primarch Ryomen Sukuna, Malcador and myself. Only upon completion of this training shall a Legion’s psykers be recognized anew as formal Librarians.”

Magnus’s lone eye narrowed. 

Sukuna would aid in the creation of the standardized training for Librarians? How? Why? His brother specialized almost exclusively on Jujutsu Sorcery, which was an entirely different discipline. Certainly, there were intersecting paths between Psychic Sorcery and Jujutsu Sorcery, but they were, at least, as Magnus saw it, far too different from each other. 

But, he supposed, among all the Primarchs, except himself, the King of Curses was the best possible candidate. And, for obvious reasons, many would cry out in protest if Magnus himself was included in the creation of the standardized training. Therefore, Sukuna was the best possible option.

Stir after stir coursed through the crowd. Some heads inclined in relief, for this was not an absolute ban. Others frowned, uncertain how this specialized training might function. The Emperor continued, his voice unyielding. “I do this not to punish, but to safeguard. The Imperium cannot endure unchecked sorcery. We must ensure no illusions of mastery blind us. When your psykers pass these rigors, the Librarius may be reinstated, and only then.”

He paused, letting the finality of his edict hang in the air like a sword over them. 

Malcador tapped his staff, voice measured. “You have heard the Emperor’s will. The Librarius is disbanded temporarily. Specialized training, guided by the Emperor and myself, alongside the King of Curses, will be mandatory for all psykers before reinstatement. This applies to every Legion, from the Vlka Fenryka to the World Eaters, from the Ultramarines to the Thousand Sons. No one is exempt.”

The tension in the hall shifted again. Many seemed uncertain—some relieved that a permanent ban was averted, others wary of these new demands.

Magnus swallowed. He could not stop his jaw from clenching. Yet he stepped forward, offering a slight bow to the Emperor. “Father, you have spoken. I abide by your decision. Would you grant me leave to address my sons and clarify what must be done?”

The Emperor dipped his head in acknowledgment. “You may.”

Magnus turned to the crowd. Ahriman lingered at the edge, hands folded behind his back. The other Thousand Sons librarians—who had watched with anxious eyes—straightened in readiness. Magnus inhaled, drawing composure from millennia of practice. “Then, with respect, the Thousand Sons submit to this decree. We do not renounce our pursuit of knowledge, but we shall bend to your guidance. When your specialized training is revealed, we will undertake it.”

He glanced at Ahriman, who nodded, stiff-lipped. Some of the tension in the Thousand Sons lines eased. At least they were not cast out entirely. They still had a path forward.

Mortarion stepped forward, sickle tapping the ground. His voice was low, each syllable dripping with cold finality. “We who opposed you are satisfied that the Emperor sees reason. Let none claim partial measures. The warp’s threat is no trifling thing and those who wield it are undeserving of trust, but… the King of Curses has my confidence.”

Magnus locked eyes with him. “I do not trivialize it, brother. But do not revel too much in this. The day may come when you need a Librarian’s hand again.”

Mortarion bristled, but Corvus Corax cut in, speaking with a calm, regal tone. “Peace, both of you. The Emperor has spoken, and that is an end to it—for now.” 

And then, the Raven Lord turned to Malcador. “When shall this specialized training begin, Sigillite? Some of us have psykers who must be put to use soon, if the Imperium’s wars are to continue.”

Malcador answered with a measured nod. “We will distribute the curriculum within weeks, after final consultation with the Emperor and Ryomen Sukuna. We shall gather your psykers, test their aptitudes, and place them into structured instruction. None will be permitted to act in an official capacity as battle-psykers until they have passed each phase. This will be thorough, not cursory.”

Malcador continued. “All psykers. That includes Rune Priests, chaplains with latent powers, and any who brandish warp-based gifts. The measure is universal.”

Othere Wyrdmake stiffened. “That is not necessary. Our powers differ. They come from Fenris itself.”

Malcador’s eyes hardened. “They come from the warp, Othere, no matter what legends say. The Emperor has decided. You will comply.”

A twitch crossed Othere’s face, but he said no more. The aura of finality was too great to challenge.

The Emperor rose from his throne, sending a silent ripple of awe through the hall. All present lowered their heads, more out of reflex than conscious will. His armor gleamed in the torchlight, a golden testament to the Imperium’s might. “Hence this council is concluded. For now, heed this decree well. I expect no disobedience.”

He lingered a moment, gaze sweeping across the assembly. Mortarion bowed his head. Corax lowered his eyes. Othere Wyrdmake clutched his staff. Ferrus Manus dipped his brow in respect. Magnus straightened his shoulders, meeting the Emperor’s stare. Behind him, Ahriman tried to hide his tightening fists.

With that, the Emperor turned, each step echoing, each movement a quiet command. Custodians formed a guard about him. Malcador followed with swift steps, staff tapping. The towering doors opened, and the Emperor departed, leaving a silent vacuum in his wake.

The hall erupted into subdued conversation once the Emperor was gone. Delegates turned to each other with hushed words, some expressing relief, others frustration. The Mechanicum representatives compared data-litanies on how best to incorporate these new regulations. Ecclesiarchs murmured blessings, extolling the Emperor’s wisdom. Imperial Army generals flipped through notes, wondering if the ban would hamper ongoing campaigns. Tech-adepts hovered around Mortarion, seeking to confirm if their psykers had to stand down as well.

Magnus stood in place, staff in hand, letting the swirl of activity pass around him. Ahriman stepped closer, gaze flicking to the departing crowd. “This is… gentler than we feared. But still a blow.”

Magnus nodded, voice hushed. “We expected a total ban. This path is kinder, if no less burdensome.” 

A faint sigh escaped him. “We must prepare the Legion for a period without sanctioned librarians. The specialized training must be faced as soon as it is made available. We cannot tarry, or we risk losing the momentum we gained in these arguments.”

Ahriman lowered his voice even more. “Some of our brothers will see this as humiliation. They poured their lives into perfecting their arts. Now, they stand forced to submit to new measures. Anger might spread.”

Magnus’s expression tightened. “I will address them. We either adapt or face censure. Sukuna’s letter proved true—compromise is the only path to avoid destruction. The Emperor’s word is absolute.”

Ahriman dipped his head, eyes distant. “Then I will gather the coven leaders. We will brace them for this forced respite.”

Magnus turned to watch Mortarion’s retinue exit, the Death Guard’s Primarch never glancing back. Othere Wyrdmake strode close behind him, cloak swaying. Their expressions revealed satisfaction, yet faint wariness. The future still held unknowns. If the specialized training was thorough, perhaps it would confirm that the Rune Priests also tread warp-laden ground.

Corax approached, voice low and respectful. “Brother, this day ended better than I expected. I admit I dreaded our father’s verdict might bury your legion. At least you have a chance, if you navigate these new demands carefully.”

Magnus dipped his head. “Your calm words yesterday helped, Corvus. You tempered the accusations with perspective. For that, I thank you.”

Corax gave a slight nod, then departed, black cloak blending into the pillars. One by one, other Primarchs took their leave, uttering not a single word. Ferrus Manus offered a brief acknowledgment to Magnus, then turned to speak with a Mechanicum envoy. 

Finally, the great chamber grew emptier, the echoes of footsteps fading. Only the echo of hushed servants remained, tending to the torches and clearing away seats. Magnus stood a moment longer, letting the reality sink in. The Librarius was disbanded—temporarily. A sweeping new training regimen, one the Emperor and Malcador would devise, lay on the horizon.