Nightfall was shrouded in darkness. It was not the perpetual twilight of Barbarus's hidden valleys, but a night stolen from a sunless world. Mortarion had been told it was because both the Terran and Nostroman Night Lords found it more comfortable. The crew was Nostroman as well—even the voidborn Navy crews found the darkness oppressive.

Mortarion found it slightly irritating—at the back of his head, he could not get rid of the thought that the Night Lords and their crew could function with a bit more light. Just enough for those not used to such darkness not to stumble and walk into walls. Still, this was not the reason for his sour mood. The reason was standing next to him, and giving him a lecture.

"You are a hypocrite, brother."

Mortarion looked to the side, at the granite-clad form of the other Primarch. Unlike his own face, Lorgar's visage was smooth, uncared. Golden cuneiform tattoos flowed over his features and bald scalp.

"You hate me for my powers, but not Konrad," Lorgar continued, his tone gentle, yet firm.

"He does not pretend it's not a curse," Mortarion growled.

For a moment, the mask of the patient teacher cracked, and a flash of... anger? passed over Lorgar's face. Then, it melted and became irony. That, Mortarion had not expected.

"I do not think that bleeding from my eyes and nose every time I wake, and never dreaming anything but nightmares counts as a blessing, brother," the Urizen replied. He turned to look into the darkness of the Nightfall's hall. "You do not mind, because you like Konrad, but you hate me for mine."

"And you pity us both," Mortarion snarled. "Not as perfect as you, are we? Not the golden untouched children, who never knew suffering."

A chuckle came from the shadow, low and mocking. "So very outspoken you are, silent Mortarion." Konrad Curze slipped out from the darkness, almost as if it had just given birth to him. "But I do not need a knight. Lorgar on the other hand..."

"Has heard better tirades from a fragile old human," the Urizen said drily. "Though, I admit, the... man who brought me up could not sneak up on me as well as you do, Konrad. I hope that is some consolation."

Mortarion glanced at Lorgar again, wondering at the last comment. The pause before the word "man" was not an unintentional hesitation—not in someone who was known to be a consummate orator. This was to be a hint of some kind, a glimpse of something, but he had no patience for word games.

"You are both obnoxious," he hissed. "Let us be done with this, and get on with planning—that is why we have come here."

"And I thought you were here to enjoy my charm and brilliant conversation skills," Konrad said, his voice dripping with mock-hurt. "Since you like me."

"Eaves-dropping is a bad habit, brother," Lorgar chided. The tone sounded uncanny to Mortarion—there was no rancour in it, no intention to harm. Why would anyone speak like that?

"It's the best way to learn," Konrad replied, grinning a mirthless smile.

"You do know that actually depends on many factors, don't you?" Lorgar answered placidly. "But I will not annoy Mortarion by giving you a lecture on learning strategies."

It didn't seem like either had the intention of ending the banter, so clearly Mortarion had to motivate them in a way that not involve growling at them to shut up. Slowly, he edged to the side, until he was between and slightly behind both of them, and then attempted to grab each by the back of their head.

Konrad managed to evade his hand completely. The Night Lord's Primarch turned around, his power claw shooting out towards Mortarion's face, only to see his target slam against the wall. Lorgar's eyes were glowing with eldritch energy, his jaw set. He hadn't needed to touch Mortarion to toss him effortlessly away—his psychic powers had been enough.

For a moment, Konrad appeared to consider his next course of action, before standing straight again. "Did you learn your lesson yet, Mortarion? Or does it need reinforcing?"

Mortarion bared his teeth in response, battle-hormones flooding his body. "And what would you teach me? That being stabbed with a power claw hurts, or is there anything equally obvious you want to share with me?"

Konrad crouched, ready to leap, while Mortarion reached for his Manreaper, ready to fight his brother.

"Stop!" Lorgar shouted, golden glow wreathing him like a halo. In that moment, he was unmistakably the Emperor's son, his very image. "We are getting nowhere. Can we please focus on why we are here?"

Konrad Curze hissed in Nostroman, shielding his eyes from the light.

Mortarion glared at Lorgar, trying to puzzle out what just happened. It all didn't add up—he was aware he should have expected the Night Haunter to lash out at him for sneak up on him, but why would Lorgar react like this? It was like Mortarion himself would react...

"You're right," he said, looking away.

Sevatar sprawled over the chair, like a giant self-satisfied tomcat. He had placed his legs on the conference table—Erebus was still wondering who managed to convince Konrad Curze that he needed one—and laced his hands behind his head.

First Captain Nathaniel Garro gave him a speculative look.

Erebus pretended to study his nails, while surreptitiously glancing at the two other Astartes.

Garro seemed to reach a conclusion, and rose from his seat. He marched towards Sevatar, who continued ignoring him in the most provocative way one could ignore another person. Garro, undaunted, grabbed one the Night Lord's outstretched legs and pulled.

There was a resounding crash, followed by Nostroman cursing—Erebus wondered how satisfying it really was, given that Nostroman was mostly melodic hissing.

"Chairs are easily overbalanced," Garro informed Sevatar solemnly.

"No, really?" the Night Lord growled, pulling himself up from the floor. "If you want to pick a fight, just say so. I don't discriminate—I fight Terrans too."

"Is he always so juvenile?" Garro asked, as if he hadn't just been an idiot.

"Brothers," Erebus said. "Our Lords will be here... eventually. Do you want them to find us squabbling and posturing?"

Garro had the good grace to look embarrassed.

Sevatar made a show of pretending to consider his answer. He looked at the ceiling. Then, he scratched his head. "Yeah. The Night Haunter has such low expectations that practically anything I do is a pleasant surprise."

"Just pretend to be impressed," Erebus whispered theatrically to Garro, smiling his most charming smile at Sevatar. "He will start behaving once he thinks we believe he's the superior one in the room."

Sevatar snorted, and put his legs on the table again. This time, however, he kept an eye on Garro, clearly not intending to get caught unaware again. The Death Guard sat straighter and his expression slid towards what Erebus decided to describe as demonstrative propriety. Sometimes, the First Chaplain of the Word Bearers was certain that he was the only truly mature adult in the whole Galaxy—Primarchs included.

As if the universe were trying to prove him right, the Primarchs entered the chamber. Instantly, Erebus and the two other Astartes rose. Erebus caught Mortarion giving Sevatar an amused look.

"Don't encourage him," Konrad Curze hissed.

"I don't need encouragement, sire," Sevatar announced smugly.

Erebus watched with amusement, as Lorgar looked mournfully at the ceiling and shook his head in resignation.

"We have other more important things to discuss," Lorgar said. "Shall we?"

Without biological or cybernetic enhancements a human being would be able to take precisely three breaths on Stangetz before their lungs would melt. Before the Night fell, this had been merely a minor obstacle—mankind wanted the bounty hidden beneath the crust, and it would get them, even if it meant building orbital plates and habitats in the corrosive atmosphere.

For a while, the world and its new populace prospered.

Then, the Long Night fell, and with it came the nightmares. Stangetz's people fought, and for a while they kept on winning. But the nightmares kept returning, and they did so from the shadows.

Sometimes, a few workers would not return from their shift. Sometimes, a habitat would fall silent. And yet, life went on. A life where one feared the shadows, and where vigilance and terror ruled, but it was a life.

It would be easy to think that once given a chance to leave their fear behind, and become a part of something glorious again, they would leap at the chance. But humankind was a flawed species. An old fear was like a well-worn shoe. A new uncertain future, even when it promises safety and freedom, was infinitely more terrifying than the shadows and the nightmares of their mothers and fathers.

Konrad Curze understood that. He understood fear, unlike Mortarion and Lorgar. They only knew it.

Stangetz's leaders could claim that they did not wish to fight wars that had nothing to do with them, but the Night Haunter knew that it was fear that truly dictated their words. They feared losing their power—and they inevitably would. After all, they could not keep the nightmares at bay, but the new regime would.

Leaders need to at least pretend to protect their own. Even on Nostromo it was true.

Konrad Curze looked out through the large window, into the darkness beyond. His own reflection looked back at him, teeth bared in something aproximating a mirthless smile.

Why did everything always come back to fear?