He knew that the enemy was almost here. Gorseval had dismissed his bodyguards and locked himself in his throne room, awaiting the arrival of his foes silently on his iron throne. The throne room was buried deep inside one of the asteroids of the Reach and was only dimly lit by a few strips of glow-lights embedded in the ceiling. The Dark Star, in one of his prescient moments, had slowly figured out who the enemy commander was that had destroyed the Eldar for him -- something that annoyed him. Gorseval had wanted to crush the Eldar by himself.

The door to the throne room swung open and the Emperor stepped inside, sword in hand and blood splattered on the golden plate of his golden power armor, his radiance illuminating the gloom. Gorseval looked down on the Emperor from a raised dias in the center of the room, his face concealed by shadows, a perfect contrast to the almost blinding light of the Emperor's glory. Before either of them could speak, another bloodied figure entered the room.

Mon-Kal strode in after his father, his armour splattered with the blood of many victims this day. Though his helm was on one could feel the rage radiating off of the Primarch as if his resplendent artificer armor would crack from the heat of his brow alone. His massive powerfists were dripping with gore as he cut in front of the Emperor, raising an accusing finger at the massive man on his throne, it still dripped with viscera. "You would dare to strike at the sons of the Emperor after they have provided you aid?! I should cut your whelp hide from your body and fashion it into a cloak for my finest captain! What say you in your defense, slayer of my sons? What say you!"

Erron enters the dimly lit throne room, the sounds of combat growing quieter behind him as the last of the resistance was being mopped up by the combined might of several Space Marine Legions. Green ceramite splattered red with gore, his shimmering blades dulled from blood that sizzled and popped with the flickers of energy that run along the length of the curved sword. He looked upon the scene before him, seeing his brother Mon-Kal pointing accusingly at the dark figure upon his throne, his father silent.

So this was the man they came all this way to find? The man who had returned their aid with violence? How many had died in their quest to root this one out from his holes and make him see the error of his ways? Erron could not help but feel contempt for what he saw as needless death for the sake of one man’s vanity. He swallowed his anger, and stepped up next to Mon-Kal, removing his winged helm and shaking loose his long black hair as he addressed his brother.

“Calm yourself Mon-Kal,” he spoke quietly, but with firmness in his voice, his green eyes never leaving the darkened figure on the dais. “Enough blood had been spilt today on rash actions and even rasher tempers.”

Gorseval listened passively as the red-armored giant, Mon-Kal, raged against him. His ink-black eyes flitted over to absorb the face of the green-armored man when he removed his helmet. Gorseval immediately recognized parts of his own face, and the black hair was the same -- just as it was with the golden-armored figure, the largest of them all, who watched the confrontation with an unreadable look on his face. This confirmed his suspicions.

The pale shape of Gorseval's fingers gripped the armrests of his throne tightly and he leaned forward, a beam of light falling across his graven face. The Emperor drew a shuddering breath at the sight. Gorseval looked so much like him the two could have been twin brothers, were it not for the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his eyes.

When Gorseval spoke, his voice was grim and cold. "You stole my victory from me," he said, as if that explained everything. Gorseval's mind reached out and touched those of the three fellow half-gods that stood before him. The Emperor returned this contact, and Gorseval almost recoiled -- he had never met another human psyker before. The other two seemed not to notice, and Gorseval concluded they must be blunts, like all the others. Where Erron's mind was full of contempt and Mon-Kal's was full of rage, Gorseval felt a great sadness in the Emperor's mind, and something else... was that pity? Nostrils flaring, Gorseval's mind retreated and he clenched his jaw. "The aliens were mine. I slew their witch in single combat."

Unable to bite back his retort, Erron lost his composure for a moment, snapping at the shadowed psyker. "Like you slew my sons? In single combat from within your darkened holes? Waiting until their backs were turned before your men butchered their fellows?" The sarcasm within his voice was plain, and his outburst left his face flushed with anger that was generally uncharacteristic of him. He calmed himself, but his eyes still glowered at the seated king, a ruler of nothing but rock and few souls now. "Your armies are defeated," he continued, calmer now. "There is no reason to continue this pointless campaign for the sake of your own pride, you have lost, brother." The last word is spoken with a mix of emotions, both an attempt at reaching the pallid figure as well as almost a sense of disgust.

As the 'King' claimed that the death of the Eldar was his victory Mon-Kal bristled with rage, and almost immediately retorted, were it not for Erron speaking first. He railed on about honour, and how his sons died dishonorably, which while true hardly seemed the most important thing to Mon-Kal at the time. As his brother finished Mon-Kal sneered at him referring to this bastard as a brother, "You would call him brother already? I will address him as such after his penance, and after he reigns in his arrogance!", Mon-Kal now turned back to the Primarch on his throne, he was the spitting image of the Emperor, though paler with darker eyes, "And you believe the Eldar to be your victory? No one seeks their death more vehemently than I, Kinslayer." With that, he removed his own helmet, exposing his gaunt, drawn features and sunken eyes... and the Black Crown. "The blood of the Eldar is mine to take, as retribution for all they took from me! The life of their 'witch' was not yours, it was mine! Personally father," he spoke to the Emperor now, "I believe the Kinslayer deserves harsh punishment for the murder of Erron's and my sons, and I volunteer to carry it out," he sneered the last words towards the Primarch on the throne.

"That is not your decision to make Mon-Kal!" Erron turned, speaking directly to his aggressive brother this time, casting his gaze back to their father, "Our Father has decreed this man be rejoined with us and taken in as is his birthright! It is not for you to say who is worthy and who is not."

The Emperor, who had been silent the whole time, placed his hands on the shoulders of his two sons. "Do not forget that all of you, my sons and my daughters, are made in my image," he said in a low and mournful voice. As his gaze fell on Mon-Kal, he smiled. "Strength through rage," he spoke softly, and he looked at Erron. "Nobility through honor." The Emperor's bright blue eyes, alive with emotion, met Gorseval's unreadable black stare, and he said: "And darker things too. He is as much my child as any of you."

Gorseval said nothing, though a shadow fell over his face and he looked more forlorn than ever. He had spent his whole life trying to fill the ghastly void inside himself and it had driven him to great heights -- from the cursory glances he'd taken at the minds of Erron and Mon-Kal, he knew that neither of them had raised a fleet and set off to conquer the galaxy before Emperor had found them -- but it didn't seem to matter. It was in his very nature to be hollow, and it was the Emperor who had made him this way. The Silent King, determined to defy his father one last time, reached out his mind once more and touched that of the Emperor, who sensed his intent immediately. "Stand back," the Emperor said and positioned himself in front of his sons.

The temperature in the room dropped sharply and psychic frost formed on every surface, coating the floor and the bloodied carapace of their power armor. The very air seemed to buzz and warp with the intensity of the psyker-duel, and Gorseval's face twisted grimly.

As the Emperor stepped forward, it began to dawn on Mon-Kal just what this arrogant Primarch was doing. He and the Emperor were... using their psychic powers in a sort of duel. He growled deeply at the sight, a son fighting his rightful father, "Erron... you know what is happening? The wretch duels with his own father through minds... the cur deserves punishment most extreme." Mon-Kal was tempted to interrupt the duel open fire on his so called 'brother' with his storm bolters... but were he to kill him he imagined his fathers wrath would be great and terrible... so he waited for the Emperor's inevitable victory.

Errons mind prickled with the psychic tensions filling the room, his breath coming out in puffs of white mist as the air grew cold. His head felt thick, his mind hazy, but he stayed his hand and kept his mouth shut, submitting to allow his father to take over and pull his wayward son back from the precipice of disaster.

Against the unfathomable might of the Emperor's mind, Gorseval stood no chance, but he was determined to prove his tenacity and his strength. The duel itself lasted for almost thirty seconds before the Primarch was forced to surrender, but the Emperor seized this opportunity to reach into Gorseval's very core and show him his desires; a united, galaxy-spanning human civilization, brought together by the twenty Legions of the Space Marines, each commanded by one of the Emperor's own genetic children. He showed Gorseval images of the Legion that was to be his, the twentieth and the last, and promised him glory beyond all measure. Initially, Gorseval resisted -- he didn't need the Emperor's help, he could attain all that glory by himself, why would he stand side-by-side with these brothers of his that clearly hated him? But it was the Emperor's vision that won out in the end. This is what you have longed for your whole life, the Emperor whispered in Gorseval's mind. It is your rightful place. Come home with me.

Gorseval surrendered and withdrew his mind; the Emperor let him go freely. The Dark Star, breathing heavily and weak from exertion, rose from his throne and slowly descended from the dias to kneel before the armored figures. "Truly, you are my father," Gorseval said, his voice hoarse. "I surrender. Take me home."