The Lord of Iron and the Eye of Terror

Perturabo strode silently through the cavernous halls of the Library of Congress in Nova Libertas. The sheer scale of the repository astounded him, though he would never admit it aloud. Shelves stretched upwards into what seemed like infinity, each packed with tomes that whispered the echoes of forgotten eras. The air was alive with the scent of aged paper and the faint hum of preservation fields, keeping centuries-old texts pristine. The quiet was oppressive but comforting—a fortress of knowledge that shielded against the chaos of ignorance.

As he moved through the rows, his eyes scanned the spines of books with the precision of a data-engine, each title cataloged in his mind. He had spent a year since his rediscovery devouring the knowledge of Terra—philosophy, engineering, military strategy, mathematics. Yet here, in the heart of Franklin Valorian's domain, he discovered something uniquely captivating: the works of humanity's forgotten geniuses.

Perturabo paused, pulling a thin volume from a shelf. The name etched on the cover was one he had encountered before—Tesla. The inventor's ideas, absurdly ahead of his time, had languished in obscurity for centuries before achieving recognition. He turned the pages, absorbing theories of wireless energy, alternating current, and speculative devices that bordered on alchemy. With a faint smirk, he noted how many of these concepts would be trivial for even a Mechanicum adept, yet they represented the dreams of a mind unshackled by convention.

It was not Tesla alone. Perturabo had read of Turing, whose thoughts on computation foreshadowed the creation of the Men of Iron; of Da Vinci, whose sketches hinted at the potential of flight centuries before it was realized; and of countless others whose brilliance was eclipsed by the limitations of their era. These minds fascinated him—not because they were flawless, but because they had dared to reach beyond the flawed boundaries of their world.

Yet, as much as Perturabo marveled, something gnawed at him, an itch beneath the armor of his intellect. It was always there, like a shadow on the edge of his vision. It had haunted him since childhood on Olympia—a persistent awareness of flaws, of imperfections that screamed for correction. Every stone in a wall, every gear in a machine, every structure he encountered bore the taint of inefficiency. Even now, amidst this sanctuary of human thought, he felt it. His gaze drifted across the library, and there it was: gaps in symmetry, inconsistencies in shelving, a corner where light and shadow failed to meet in harmony. The flaws coalesced in his mind, forming a dark void that threatened to consume his focus.

The maw. That was what he had come to call it. A yawning chasm of imperfection that seemed to stretch across reality itself. No matter where he looked, it was always there, glaring at him with silent accusation. It wasn't simply that the universe was imperfect—it was as though it taunted him, daring him to fix what others could not even perceive. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the strain.

With a sharp breath, Perturabo closed the book in his hands and set it back on the shelf. This was no place for him now. He needed clarity, or perhaps simply distraction. Turning on his heel, he began to make his way through the labyrinthine halls, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors. He descended deeper into the palace, toward the one place he knew might offer reprieve from his thoughts: Franklin Valorian's workshop.

Perturabo stood in the elevator, his arms crossed, his mind as sharp and restless as ever. The hum of the machinery was barely audible, a testament to the precision engineering of Nova Libertas. The elevator was a marvel—one of countless in the sprawling labyrinthine complexes that connected Franklin's palace to the essential institutions of the city. The Library of Congress, the White House, research centers, and more were all linked by tunnels that spanned kilometers beneath the bustling metropolis. Yet, as sophisticated as this transport system was, Perturabo found no joy in its design. There were flaws—minor, inconsequential to most, but glaring to him. Every joint, every seam, every suboptimal allocation of resources seemed to cry out for correction.

But today, his focus wasn't on the tunnels or the elevator. He stepped out as the elevator door slid open with a whisper, entering the polished expanse of the Eternity Gate. A shimmering barrier of energy marked the gateway to Franklin's underground workshop. As Perturabo stepped through, it felt like walking through a membrane of liquid light. It was instantaneous yet strangely tangible, a brief sensation of being submerged in an ocean of impossible potential. When he emerged on the other side, the sharp metallic tang of the forge hit him like a tidal wave.

The clanging of iron against iron filled the air, punctuated by the hiss of coolant and the roar of flames. Perturabo's sharp gaze swept across the vast workshop. It was more than a forge; it was a cathedral of ingenuity. Machinery of impossible complexity lined the walls, their forms sleek and efficient, pulsing with energy. Engineers, scientists, and artisans—some of the greatest minds in the galaxy—moved about with singular focus. This was a place where innovation and creation reigned supreme, a sanctuary for those who dared to dream beyond the stars.

In the center of it all, Franklin stood, his broad figure illuminated by the glow of molten metal and holo-displays. Beside him, the hulking Vulkan worked with his characteristic intensity, his dark skin glistening with the heat of the forge as he scrutinized a dataslate. Nearby, a group of scientists and engineers clustered around a single, imposing object: a suit of power armor unlike any Perturabo had ever seen. Its surface shimmered faintly, as if bending the light around it, and Perturabo needed no explanation to deduce its purpose. This was no ordinary armor—it was designed to bend space and time itself.

Perturabo's analytical mind immediately began dissecting the design. Flaws leapt out at him like cracks in glass. The alignment of the energy conduits was inefficient, the material composition suboptimal, and the mechanisms for stabilizing the temporal distortions… amateurish, at best. He bit back a scowl, unwilling to let his irritation show. For all its flaws, the armor represented a feat of engineering that few could even attempt, let alone achieve. And yet, Perturabo could not help but think how he would have done it better.

His gaze shifted to Vulkan, who was entirely absorbed in crafting an artifact of some sort. Perturabo noted the precision of his movements, the deliberate care with which he handled each component. It was impressive work, no doubt commissioned by Franklin. Only their cavalier brother would think to commission something of such astronomical value. Perturabo mused that whatever Vulkan was creating must be worth entire solar systems, given the sheer scale of resources Franklin had marshaled for this endeavor. The absurd wealth and influence his brother wielded never ceased to astonish—and, if he were honest with himself, to irk him.

Perturabo's thoughts were interrupted as Franklin turned, his ever-present smirk widening as he noticed him. That infuriating smirk, so casual, so self-assured. Perturabo could already hear the inevitable greeting forming in Franklin's mind. Perty. Peter. Peterturbo. The names grated on his nerves, but he had learned to tolerate them. At least Franklin acknowledged him—acknowledged his motives, his struggles, his accomplishments. That was more than could be said for many of their siblings.

Franklin leaned back slightly, his arms crossed as he watched Perturabo approach. "Well, well, if it isn't my favorite structural perfectionist. What brings you down to the belly of the beast, Perty?"

Perturabo inhaled deeply, letting the air out in a slow, measured breath. He refused to rise to the bait. "Curiosity," he replied evenly. "I heard you were up to something… ambitious. It appears I wasn't misinformed." His gaze flicked to the power armor. "Though I must say, I expected more."

Franklin's grin widened. "Oh, come now. Don't be shy. Tell us what's wrong with it. You know you want to."

Perturabo's eyes narrowed. He stepped closer to the armor, his gaze sweeping over its surface with the precision of a scanner. "The energy conduits are misaligned. You're losing at least 7.3% efficiency. The stabilizers for the temporal field are insufficiently insulated, which will cause catastrophic instability under prolonged use. And the alloy composition of the plating…" He tilted his head, his voice taking on a faint note of disdain. "…is subpar. It won't withstand sustained pressure from a temporal singularity."

The room grew quiet as the gathered scientists and engineers exchanged uneasy glances. Franklin, however, seemed entirely unperturbed. "See? This is why I love having you around, Perty. You've got an eye for these things. So, what would you do to fix it?"

Perturabo's lips pressed into a thin line. He could see what Franklin was doing, but he couldn't resist the challenge. "The conduits need to be realigned along these axes," he said, pointing to the holo-display and tracing a new configuration with his finger. "Replace the stabilizers with a composite material that can withstand higher thermal and electromagnetic loads. And as for the plating…" He turned to Vulkan, who had paused his work to listen. "You should forge a new alloy. Something with enhanced molecular cohesion. I assume that's within your capabilities."

Vulkan raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smile. "It's within my capabilities," he replied.

"Excellent," Perturabo said, folding his arms. "Then perhaps this project will reach the standard it should have achieved in the first place."

Franklin clapped his hands together, the sound echoing through the chamber. "Now that's the spirit! See, this is why I keep you around, Perty. Always pushing us to be better."

Perturabo shot him a withering glare. "I'm not here to amuse you, Franklin."

Franklin's smirk didn't falter. "Oh, you do that for free."

Perturabo exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to snap back. Instead, he turned his attention to the room, observing the frenetic activity of the "eggheads," as Franklin called them. Despite his irritation, Perturabo couldn't deny the sheer brilliance of what was being attempted here. The resources, the talent, the ambition—it was all a testament to Franklin's unique blend of vision and audacity.

"For whom is this armor being made?" Perturabo asked after a moment, his tone carefully neutral.

Franklin's expression softened slightly, his smirk giving way to something more thoughtful. "Someone who'll need it," he said simply. "Someone who's going to do something extraordinary...and that someone is me"

Perturabo studied his brother's face, searching for any hint of deception or mockery. But for once, Franklin seemed entirely sincere. It was… unsettling, in its own way.

"If you want this armor to succeed," Perturabo said, his voice quieter now, "you'll need more than just ambition. You'll need perfection."

Franklin nodded, his gaze steady. "And that's why you're here, brother. To make sure we get it right."

Perturabo held his gaze for a long moment before finally nodding. He wouldn't admit it aloud, but there was a part of him—a small, stubborn part—that was glad to be here. Glad to be acknowledged. Glad to contribute to something that might just transcend even his own lofty standards.

-----------------------------

The elevator doors opened to the surface, revealing a pristine beachfront that stretched out into a tranquil sea. The sound of gentle waves breaking on the shore mixed with the cries of gulls circling overhead. The golden hues of the setting sun bathed the scene in warmth, a stark contrast to the cold iron of Perturabo's thoughts. Franklin Valorian stepped out first, his easy gait and smirking face a sharp juxtaposition to Perturabo's rigid posture.

Franklin reached into a cooler and handed Perturabo a glass of amasec. "So, what is it you wanted to talk about, brother?" he asked, his tone casual but laced with curiosity.

Perturabo accepted the drink with a curt nod, taking a moment to compose his thoughts. Franklin's demeanor, as ever, was infuriatingly lighthearted. Even now, the Cavalier of the Liberty Eagles was chuckling softly, undoubtedly finding amusement in Perturabo's uncharacteristic request for a private discussion.

"You're usually glaring at me or breathing heavily," Franklin teased, leaning back against a stone railing. "So what has the Lord of Iron all riled up? I recognize that look, Peter."

Perturabo exhaled sharply, deciding to ignore the nickname. He had long since given up trying to correct Franklin's insistence on butchering his name. "There is something I have been… seeing," he began, his voice measured and deliberate. "A maw. It appears at the edge of my vision, shifting, always just out of reach. At certain angles, I can see it clearly—a gaping void where the fabric of reality itself seems to unravel."

Franklin's expression shifted slightly, his smirk giving way to a more contemplative look. "A maw, you say? Can you describe it further?"

Perturabo hesitated. "It is as if the warp and realspace overlap. At its center, there is… a hole. A tear in the fabric of reality." He clenched his jaw, his discomfort evident. "Perhaps it is nothing. Perhaps no one could understand what I am seeing."

Franklin's grin returned, though it was softer this time. "A hole in the fabric of reality? Brother, that sounds like the Eye of Terror."

"The Eye of Terror?" Perturabo repeated, his brow furrowing.

"Yes," Franklin replied, casually swirling his glass of amasec. "A ghastly piece of work, really. A massive warp storm, a wall of chaos and madness. Occasionally, nasty things come out of it, but it's mostly contained. Since you can see it, let me formally explain. This is classified information, of course, but knowing you, you're not one for gossip."

Perturabo grunted in irritation, but he did not refute the statement.

Franklin's grin widened. "What do you think the warp is, Perty?" he asked, using the nickname with deliberate playfulness.

Perturabo's response was immediate, his tone clipped. "It is another realm. A dimension separate from our own, one that we barely understand."

"Not bad," Franklin said, nodding approvingly. "But there's more to it than that. Come with me. I'll show you something."

Without waiting for a response, Franklin activated an Eternity Gate. Perturabo followed reluctantly, stepping through the shimmering portal. The transition was as seamless as before, but the sight that greeted him on the other side was anything but serene.

A colossal, swirling vortex of energy dominated the sky, its chaotic tendrils of light and shadow reaching out like grasping claws. The sheer scale of it was almost incomprehensible, a tear in reality that pulsed with a malevolent energy.

"Welcome to Cadia, brother," Franklin said, gesturing grandly. "The Cadian Gate."

Perturabo's gaze shifted from the Eye of Terror to the planet itself. Cadia was a fortress world in every sense of the word. Massive planetary gun batteries loomed over the landscape, their barrels trained skyward. Trenches and walls, some shaped like intricate star patterns, crisscrossed the terrain. Titans and armored grav-tanks patrolled alongside Liberty Eagle Astartes and the planet's stalwart defenders, the Liberty Guard. Even the skies were alive with activity, ships patrolling in precise formations.

"You've turned this world into a fortress," Perturabo observed, his voice laced with grudging respect. "Heavily fortified is an understatement. With these defenses, Cadia could withstand hundred's of years of siege." He paused, his analytical mind already dissecting the planet's strategic layout. "But if I were to arrange its defenses, it would stand forever."

Franklin's laugh was warm and genuine. "And that's exactly why I brought you here, Peter. I believe you could do a better job fortifying the Cadian Gate than Dorn ever could."

For the first time in their conversation, Perturabo allowed himself a small smirk. "Who is the enemy?" he asked, his tone sharp.

Franklin's expression became more serious. "That, brother, is classified."

Perturabo's smirk vanished, replaced by a glare. "The defenses here clearly serve to counter the warp," he said, his voice heavy with implication. "You expect an attack."

Franklin nodded slowly. "In time, you'll know. For now, you'll have to trust Father's plan."

Perturabo fell silent, his mind racing. Franklin's words hinted at a grand design, a secret so monumental that even he, one of the Emperor's Primarchs, was not privy to it. The implications were staggering, and for the first time in a long while, Perturabo felt a flicker of curiosity mingled with unease.

As they stood beneath the looming shadow of the Eye of Terror, the silence between them spoke volumes. Perturabo's gaze remained fixed on the swirling vortex in the sky, his thoughts a whirlwind of speculation and resolve. Franklin, ever the Cavalier, simply watched his brother with a knowing smile, his own thoughts concealed behind his easygoing facade.

"Come, Peter," Franklin said at last, clapping his brother on the shoulder. "Let's see how you'd rearrange the defenses. I'll even let you rename the fortifications if it makes you feel better."

Perturabo allowed himself a rare chuckle, the sound low and almost imperceptible. "You may regret that offer, Franklin."

Franklin's laughter echoed across the fortress world of Cadia, a sound of camaraderie and confidence that, despite himself, Perturabo found strangely reassuring. Together, they turned back toward the fortress, two brothers bound by purpose and mystery, standing on the precipice of a grand design that neither fully understood but both were destined to shape.

- Cadia Stands on the Wings of Liberty.