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The Emperor and Malcador were busy with some very important matters, and the young Primarchs needed constant supervision. With no hope of actual nannies available, Valdor once again found himself playing mother hen, a nickname Malcador had jokingly given him.
But as he listened to the cacophony around him, Constantin thought it’d be easier to bring the entire galaxy, even the Orks, into Compliance single-handedly than to deal with eighteen little Primarchs whose destructive potential rivaled that of Titans. As if to prove his point, Angron, seated at the table, began hurling stolen pencils. One hit Leman square in the forehead, and the Wolf immediately lunged across the table, scattering dishes and knocking over a jug of juice. The pie was drenched, utterly ruined. Roboute scrambled to mitigate the damage, throwing every napkin within reach onto the soggy mess, only to make things worse now the pastry was more paper than filling.
Valdor kept a stoic expression and tried to force Horus to eat his porridge, while the Emperor’s favorite son resisted with all four limbs, shaking his head and refusing to open his mouth. Even the classic "Open wide, here comes the battleship!" trick didn’t work. During another attempt to shove the spoon past the child’s defenses, Horus smacked it out of the Custode’s hand and blinked up at him with innocent eyes, as if the spoon had leapt away on its own and he’d merely tried to catch it.
"No dessert if you don’t finish your porridge," Constantin threatened, grabbing a clean spoon and trying again.
Chaos at the other end of the table had escalated into a full-blown siege. The only islands of peace were the seats occupied by Rogal, Sanguinius, Ferrus, and Fulgrim. The rest were already brawling: Leman, in retaliation, had plopped Angron’s porridge bowl onto his head, leaving the latter swinging blindly and punching himself in the face a couple of times. Roboute tried to mediate, but the Lion, dragged into the scuffle, accidentally shoved him face-first into his plate. As the Thirteenth spat out porridge and wiped his face, he had the misfortune of getting caught between Leman and the Lion’s tussle, and soon all three were a snarling, blond tangle of limbs where the two brothers bit anything within reach mostly the long-suffering Roboute.
"What if the porridge is poisoned?" Horus whined, dodging another spoonful. Valdor remained calm, though he really wanted to follow Leman’s example and dump the bowl over the Emperor’s favorite son’s head. But then he’d probably end up with a whole cauldron of porridge on his head or worse.
"Who’d poison your porridge, huh? Mortarion?" Valdor grumbled. "It’s fine. Everyone’s eating it. So will you."
"But what if mine’s the poisoned one? I’m not eating until I know!"
The Custode sighed heavily but decided to compromise. He took a spoonful himself and swallowed.
"Not poisoned. I’m alive. Tastes fine, too," he said. But Horus wasn’t convinced:
"What if the poison’s on the spoon? Or the bottom of the bowl? Or the edge?"
It wasn’t until the bowl was empty and the porridge in Valdor’s stomach, not the child’s, that Constantin realized something was off. Horus didn’t look the least bit upset. In fact, he was grinning widely.
"Now gimme dessert!"
Valdor understood. The little schemer had played him. Well, two could play that game.
"Whoever eats the porridge gets the dessert," he said, snatching the plate of fruit pudding for himself. The Emperor’s favorite son fell silent, processing his mistake, before promptly launching into a full-blown tantrum.
But Constantin had bigger problems than a screeching Horus. The Primarchs needed separating. Immediately.
The three tangled toddlers were finally separated. Roboute was sent off with an apothecary to tend to his "battle wounds," while Leman and the Lion, still hissing and growling at each other, were exiled to opposite corners by Valdor. Angron, now blissfully calm, was fast asleep still wearing the porridge bowl as a hat. The others, deprived of their chief instigator, halfheartedly swatted at one another until a single sharp glance from the Custode was enough to silence them.
But then something else caught Constantin’s attention.
Fulgrim was watching Ferrus with rapt fascination as the latter… gnawed on a spoon.
Valdor was at their side in an instant, yanking the utensil from the boy’s mouth only to find nothing left but a chewed-up handle.
"You… you ate the spoon?!"
"I’ll digest it," Ferrus said dismissively. "Watch—" He reached for a fork, which Valdor immediately confiscated. Then, for good measure, he snatched every piece of cutlery within the two Primarchs’ reach.
"The porridge has all the nutrients you need! You don’t have to eat the silverware," Constantin scolded, just as Fulgrim tried to slip an empty saucer into his brother’s hands. "Or the dishes! How did you even come up with this?!"
"I swallowed a toy soldier once, and it digested," the Tenth replied, dead serious, while the Third rummaged for more test subjects. "Fulgrim wants to find out what I can’t digest. But I can digest anything."
Valdor sighed deeply as Fulgrim triumphantly produced the ruined pie, and Ferrus dug in.
Well. At least it’s paper and not metal.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Constantin suddenly felt tiny arms wrap around his leg. Sanguinius peered up at him, wings fluffed adorably.
"Treat?" the Angel chirped.
In the chaos, Valdor had completely forgotten the Ninth needed special desserts.
A bar of hematogen was promptly handed over, and Sanguinius squealed with delight before sinking his teeth into his favorite snack.
Relieved that the Primarchs were too exhausted to reignite the tabletop war and that Horus had finally worn himself out, now slumped over the table with muffled whimpers, Constantin declared lunch officially over. Naturally, half the children missed dessert, either because they’d destroyed it in the brawl or, in the dumbest possible twist, fed it to the Custode.
But the saga didn’t end there.
The cunning Fulgrim resumed his experiments the very next day, determined to uncover the limits of Ferrus’s digestion. This time, the duo slipped past guards and servants into the kitchen. Valdor didn’t realize they were missing at first.
When he finally stormed in, he found half-eaten vegetables, gnawed sausage, and a partially devoured ladle. Ferrus sat on the table, chewing determinedly, while Fulgrim watched with academic interest.
Constantin lunged, prying the Tenth’s hands open.
"What in Terra’s name are you doing?!" the Custode demanded, glaring at the instigator. Fulgrim dropped his gaze, then huffed defensively:
"It was just a candy!"
Valdor looked at the object now lying in Ferrus’s palm. Sure enough—a perfectly ordinary toffee.
With another weary sigh, he hoisted both boys under his arms and marched them back to the nursery before they could further test the Tenth’s gastrointestinal fortitude. Not that Ferrus seemed to mind being Fulgrim’s lab rat.
But since when did the Third Primarch ever give up so easily? Once an idea took root in his head that was it! He wouldn’t relent until he either got results or bashed his head bloody trying.
At the next Primarchs’ lesson under Malcador’s supervision, it became clear that Fulgrim had attempted to feed Ferrus modeling clay, pencils, and even gouache paint. The gouache, at least, had been a hit, sweet, apparently. When Valdor rushed to the scene, he found the Tenth with his mouth smeared in vibrant colors, grinning innocently to reveal a rainbow of stained teeth. The Custode felt his eyelid twitch.
The child was scrubbed clean (thankfully, this wasn’t one of Fulgrim’s infamous "I’ll cover myself in green dye to become a Christmas tree" stunts). The paint came off easily enough. And at least this wasn’t some elaborate revenge scheme, Fulgrim never held grudges against Ferrus.
That evening, after dinner, Constantin performed his usual pre-bedtime inspection of the Primarchs. No unauthorized nighttime play sessions allowed. Magnus’s book was confiscated (again), Rogal and Perturabo’s building blocks were seized, and Alpharius’s overalls were emptied of... cookies.
"Do they not feed you?" Valdor muttered as one of the nannies boxed up the contraband snacks while another wrestled a squirming child into pajamas.
"I am Alpharius," the boy grumbled, effectively ending the conversation.
With a sigh, the Custode sent him off to the nursery. The Twentieth promptly burrowed under his blanket, sulking.
Once all the children were tucked in, the nannies read bedtime stories, smoothed out blankets, and turned off the lights. Valdor lingered just long enough to confirm the little terrors were actually sleeping and not plotting a midnight uprising. All was quiet. Satisfied, even smiling, he turned to leave... and nearly tripped over a small figure blocking his path.
Big, azure eyes stared up at him. The child wore matching blue pajamas adorned with a three-headed hydra. Alpharius.
"Why aren’t you asleep?" Constantin frowned.
"Hungry," the boy whined, his voice pitiful enough to make the Custode’s conscience twinge. His mournful expression suggested imminent tears. Had Alpharius actually been underfed? Did the others steal his portions? He’s always so quiet in his corner, maybe I’ve been neglecting… Shaking off the guilt, Valdor extended a hand. Alpharius immediately latched onto his thumb with both tiny fists, peering into his soul.
"Fine, let’s go," Constantin relented, breaking one of the cardinal rules of Primarch-rearing: No midnight snacks.
He carried the boy to the kitchen, plopped him onto the counter (for lack of better seating), and rummaged for food. Cooking was too time-consuming, so he broke another rule: skipping nutritious porridge or soup in favor of yogurt and cereal. Alpharius devoured it, ears twitching with each crunch. After hiding the evidence, Valdor hauled him back to the nursery and tucked him in, watching until the child’s breathing steadied into sleep.
Surely that’s the end of—
"Water."
Valdor turned slowly. Alpharius stood in the hallway, arms crossed, face demanding.
The Custode glanced back at the nursery. The bed was empty, blankets tossed aside. He blinked. "Why didn’t you ask earlier?"
"Didn’t want it then," Alpharius huffed.
Another sigh. Another trip to the kitchen.
This time, after returning the boy to bed, Valdor loomed over the crib for ten full minutes. Not taking any chances. Only when he was certain Alpharius was truly asleep did he retreat. Only to freeze at the door. A shadow, small and child-sized, seemed to dart toward the crib. But when he blinked, it vanished.
"Hallucinating now, am I?" Valdor rubbed his eyes. "Too much recaf. Definitely."
***
The next morning Constantin found Ferrus and Fulgrim suspiciously quiet in the playroom. Sensing trouble, the Custode braced himself for the worst, closed his eyes, exhaled, opened them again and marched over.
"Confess," he growled. Fulgrim guiltily looked away. Ferrus blinked up at him with practiced innocence. "Fulgrim. Ferrus."
The toddlers shook their heads vigorously, refusing to defend themselves. Valdor sighed and pinged Malcador on his vox-bead.
A muffled vibration buzzed nearby.
Constantin’s gaze slowly lifted, scanning the children. Then he leaned in, listening.
The sound was coming from Ferrus’s stomach.
"Fulgrim," he said, voice dangerously flat. "Did you… feed your brother a vox-bead?"
The Third Primarch mumbled something, nodding. Valdor’s instincts screamed that this was so much worse than it seemed.
Not bothering to unravel the full extent of their crimes, he scooped both boys under his arms and stormed toward the apothecarion.
The Primarchs squirmed, resisting the apothecaries’ attempts to examine them—even tried to bolt. Silently. Teeth clenched. Constantin was already mentally drafting his resignation letter to the Emperor. "My Lord, I have failed You. Please behead me at Your earliest convenience."
As two junior apothecaries struggled to coax the children onto the examination table, the door hissed open.
In strode Fabius Bile, the Chief Apothecary of the Third Legion.
Summoned as a last resort before disturbing the Emperor Himself, he’d been briefed on the situation: Ferrus swallowed a vox-bead.
Bile took one look at the scene, sighed like a man already dead, and approached the corner where the Primarchs had barricaded themselves, still silent, still glaring.
He loomed over them, his Chirurgeon’s manipulators clicking ominously.
"Once the vox-bead’s outer casing dissolves in your stomach acid," he said, eerily calm, "the salts in its power cell will react with gastric fluid. The resulting compound will burn ulcers straight through your intestinal lining."
One apothecary gasped. Valdor clutched his chest.
The Primarchs, however, looked horrified. Eyes wide, they scrambled along the wall and onto the examination table, suddenly very compliant.
While Constantin recovered from near-cardiac arrest and the junior apothecaries hyperventilated into paper bags, Bile finished his work and peeled off his gloves.
"They’re fine," he said, nodding toward the door.
Valdor gaped. "But—the battery? The one that’s going to—"
Bile snorted. "There is no salt-cell. Tenth’s stomach acid dissolves plasteel in under an hour. Only risk was if it got lodged in his esophagus." He flicked a dismissive hand at Fulgrim. "Third licked a power cell. Minor tongue burn, already healed."
Constantin stared at the Primarchs. They’d already recovered, swinging their legs cheerfully as if they hadn’t just been scared into compliance.
With a relieved sigh, Valdor thanked Bile and hauled the boys away.
***
"Maybe we overcharged the battery a little?" Alpharius chewed his lip thoughtfully, eyeing the crooked circuit board with its flickering indicators.
He sat in a forgotten corner of the Palace, dusty, neglected for years... mostly. Except for the makeshift fort cobbled together from patched-up sheets and crates. Inside, old pillows and a single stuffed bear (missing for half a year, once belonging to Horus) provided meager comfort. Horus, of course, had forgotten about the lost toy the second the Emperor replaced it.
Across the fort sat an exact copy of Alpharius, slightly dust-smudged. The double wrinkled his nose in thought and shook his head.
"Maybe you shouldn’t have stolen the battery in the first place!" He tightened a bolt on their makeshift device with a satisfied nod. "Make sure they don’t take anything else of ours."
"Still think we overdid it," the first Alpharius muttered, tracing a finger over the wiring. Then a slow, smug grin spread across his face. "...But a silenced Fulgrim was worth it."