It was the year M31.001. The galaxy held its breath on the cusp of betrayal, unaware that the tide of madness had already begun to seep in.
The air in the Emperor's private chamber was always thin, charged with a power that was both awesome and oppressive. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of artificial light, illuminating a space sparse and functional, dominated by strategy displays and esoteric instruments. Malcador the Sigillite stood before the Emperor, the echoes of the recent, weighty order still vibrating in the stagnant atmosphere. He had received the command, acknowledged it, understood its brutal necessity in the grand, terrible design. But this time, something held him rooted to the spot—a knot of unease tightening in his ancient chest.
The Emperor, a figure of impossible light and shadow even in this quietest of moments, did not immediately dismiss him. He seemed to sense the Sigillite's hesitation, his gaze—though often perceived indirectly, more a pressure on the soul than a thing seen with mortal eyes—resting upon His most trusted servant.
Malcador, whose long life had been an unending exercise in loyalty, sacrifice, and the grim management of impossible secrets, felt the familiar ache of weariness deep in his bones. Not just the fatigue of countless duties, but the soul-sickness that came from witnessing the unfolding tragedy he could do little to prevent, only manage. It was the silence, the imposed ignorance, that gnawed at him most fiercely in moments like this.
He chose his words with the care of a master surgeon placing a scalpel blade.
"My liege," he began, his voice raspy, softer than usual. "The order... I understand its necessity. But why not tell the primarch about this order."
The Emperor offered nothing but patient stillness.
Malcador pressed on, treading into dangerous territory.
"But... the sons. The Primarchs. They all must know about this so they can prepare for something." His gaze flickered toward the faint holographic projections of distant warzones. "The true nature of this enemy, the… the depth of its reach. They fight shadows they cannot comprehend are shadows. Surely... surely they must know more?"
He took a breath, the daring of his words hanging heavy in the silence. This was questioning the Emperor's core method: control through absolute knowledge withheld.
"They are not children, my lord. They command armies, conquer stars. They are beings of profound intellect and power. Perhaps... perhaps some truths must be risked."
The Emperor moved then, a subtle shift in His posture that nonetheless commanded absolute attention. The light seemed to coalesce around Him, intensity building. His voice, when it came, was the sound of tectonic plates shifting—calm, but utterly final.
"Risks are calculated, Malcador," the Emperor stated, His words resonating not just in the air but in the Sigillite's very being. "And the risk of revealing the full truth... is absolute destruction."
He paused, allowing the weight of that statement to settle.
"You speak of them not being children. And yet, like gifted, passionate children untested by the true horrors of the void, their reactions are unpredictable. Their strengths—built on pride and singular purpose—become vectors for corruption if exposed to the true, unveiled scale of the enemy."
His unseen gaze seemed to pierce through Malcador, seeing not just the weary man, but the aeons of service and the shared burden they bore. The Emperor's tone became colder, devoid of anything but chilling logic.
"Consider the possibility, Malcador. If even one of them turns because of what they learn—recoils in horror, despairs at the odds, is seduced by the enemy's promises wrapped in the guise of forbidden knowledge—if one of them is lost because they could not bear the unveiled truth... the galaxy burns."
The psychic force behind those last three words was immense, painting a vivid, horrific future that Malcador had only glimpsed in his deepest, most guarded meditations. A future where the Imperium shattered, where humanity was extinguished, devoured.
The Emperor's presence pressed down—not with malice, but with the sheer, unyielding force of His will, of His conviction.
"The knowledge you wish to share is a poison. To administer it broadly is to risk an allergic reaction that kills the patient instantly. Better to keep it contained."
Then, the Emperor's will focused entirely on Malcador. An immense psychic presence locked onto his, a silent, unbreakable command being woven into the fabric of his soul. It was not a suggestion, not a plea, but an absolute imperative, layered with levels of psychic binding only the Emperor Himself could forge.
"Receive this truth, Malcador."
And something vast and terrible flowed from the Emperor into the Sigillite's mind—a flood of understanding, a horrifying revelation of the sheer, unfathomable scale of the Chaos incursion. Not just scattered cults and warp storms, but a cosmic, sentient darkness—the Primordial Annihilator itself—whose agents were already at work. Legions vast beyond numbering. Entities of pure malevolence. Beings cloaked not in brute force, but in laughter, seduction, science, and madness.
One of them wore a painted grin and whispered to Primarchs with jokes that bled. Another traveled in silence, black mask glinting, eyes fixed on ancient tombs. Others gathered forces of xenos and mutants alike, bending the arc of history toward entropy.
The true, horrifying face of the enemy they were fighting.
It was a psychic impact designed to shatter a lesser mind.
Malcador reeled, a silent gasp held in his throat. The weariness intensified tenfold, the weight of the galaxy suddenly concentrated into this single, unbearable secret.
The Emperor's will solidified the bonds.
"You will hold this, Malcador. You will speak of this scale to no one. Not to the Council, not to the generals, and especially not to the Primarchs. This knowledge is yours alone to bear. The Sigillite will know the full extent of the encroaching damnation, and he will speak only of what is necessary for them to fight the battles I deem them ready to fight. You are sworn to absolute secrecy. Sworn, in soul and mind, upon the future of humanity."
The psychic oath settled upon Malcador—cold and heavy, a chain forged of pure cosmic force. His shoulders slumped further, his frail form seeming to shrink under the unbearable weight. The arguments died on his tongue, replaced by the cold, hard reality of the Emperor's vision and the terrible burden he had just been given.
He could only dip his head, a gesture of fealty and acceptance, the word a physical effort.
"...Yes, my... my liege."
The silence returned, deeper now, separating the two figures despite their proximity. The Emperor—containing the ultimate truth—and Malcador, now burdened with its full, horrifying weight, utterly alone in his knowledge.
The weary loyalist, sworn to a silence he still questioned, but which he would now uphold until his dying breath, carrying the secret scale of damnation locked within the confines of his solitary soul.
The galaxy's fate rested, not just on the battles being fought, but on the terrible, necessary lies being maintained.
And somewhere beyond the veil, in the uncharted depths of the Warp... something laughed.