Emperor of Mankind

The throne room is silent. Not the comfortable kind of silence. The dangerous kind. The Emperor of Mankind stands at the foot of the Golden Throne, towering over everyone present. Golden armor gleaming beneath the cathedral lights, His psychic presence pressing against the minds of every living soul in the room like the weight of a mountain.

Custodians stand motionless along the walls, halberds planted against the polished floor. Even they know better than to interrupt an argument between the Master of Mankind and the one person in the galaxy who somehow treated Him like an equal.

"...I am simply stating," the Emperor says, His voice echoing through the chamber with impossible authority, "that your proposal lacks strategic foresight."

"It lacks—"

His consort throws both hands into the air.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"I do not 'kid.'"

"No, apparently not."

The Emperor folds His arms.

"I have ruled civilizations for millennia."

"And I've heard about it for the last twenty minutes."

A Custodian's grip visibly tightens around his guardian spear. The Emperor's golden eyes narrow.

"You are dismissing experience."

"I'm dismissing the fact that you're impossible."

"I am not impossible."

"You absolutely are."

"I am objectively one of the most reasonable beings in existence."

Several Custodians simultaneously stare straight ahead with renewed determination. You blink.

"...Did you really just say that?"

"I did."

"Oh, wow." You pinch the bridge of your nose, "No. Hold on."

Without another word, you turn around and walk toward one of the side doors. The Emperor frowns.

"Where are you going?"

No answer. The massive doors slide open. Then shut. Silence settles over the throne room once more. The Emperor looks toward the Custodes. None of them move. None of them dare speculate. A minute passes. Then— Scrrrraaaape.

A strange sound echoes from beyond the doorway. It grows louder. Closer. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The doors open again. Every head in the room turns. You walk back inside... dragging a ladder. Nobody speaks. The Emperor watches in complete silence as you carry it across the vast marble floor. Right. Up. To Him.

You unfold it with an emphatic— CLACK. One step. Clack. Another. Then another. Until you are finally close enough that you no longer have to crane your neck to look up at Him. The throne room becomes so quiet that even the hum of ancient machinery seems deafening. His partner looks Him directly in the eyes. Raise a finger. Point it squarely at His chest.

"Listen here, you little shit."

Time stops. Not metaphorically. Several nearby psykers later swear reality itself had hesitated. The Custodes freeze. One nearly drops his spear. Another is silently calculating whether this constitutes treason, heresy, or a phenomenon beyond mortal classification. The Emperor... simply stares. Not in anger. Not even in offense. Pure, profound confusion. His gaze slowly drifts downward. To the ladder. Then back up again.

"Did you retrieve a step ladder," He ask after a long pause, "solely so you could insult me at eye level?"

You nod.

"Yes."

"..."

"..."

"...That is remarkably inefficient."

"It made a point."

"It made several."

Another pause. The Emperor regards you with the expression of a man attempting to comprehend a cosmic anomaly.

"You crossed half the Imperial Palace."

"Mhm."

"Located a ladder."

"Yep."

"Transported it here."

"Correct."

"Climbed it."

"Still with you."

"...Entirely so you could call Me 'little.'"

You smile.

"I stand by my decision."

A silence stretches between them. Then— A sound. Soft. Almost imperceptible. The Emperor laughs. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a single, quiet huff of amusement that escapes before even He can stop it. The entire throne room enters collective shock. A Custodian blinks.

"...Did He just laugh?"

"I believe He did."

"I have served Him for three hundred years."

"I know."

"I didn't know He could do that."

"Neither did I."

The Emperor exhales slowly, shaking His head with what can only be described as reluctant admiration.

"You are aware," He says, "that you remain shorter than I."

You fold your arms.

"Emotionally, you're the little one."

Several Sisters of Silence look away. Not because they are offended. Because if they make eye contact with anyone, they might actually smile. The Emperor closes His eyes for a brief moment.

"That was unworthy."

"It was accurate."

"It was not."

"It absolutely was."

He leans forward just enough that the height difference returns despite the ladder.

"So." His voice drops into that impossibly calm tone He uses before delivering absolute certainty. "Who is taller now?"

You look up. Think about it. Then extends the ladder more and climbs one more step.

"There."

The Emperor stares.

"...You brought a ladder with multiple settings."

"I plan ahead."

"I've noticed."

Another tiny smile tugs at the corner of His mouth.

"You are impossible."

"And yet you like me anyway."

"I did not say that."

"You didn't have to."

The Emperor sighs—a deep, ancient sigh that sounds like someone who had shepherded humanity across countless worlds only to be defeated by a basic appliance.

"No."

He reaches out, effortlessly lift both you and the ladder off the ground as though you weigh nothing, and sets you back on the marble floor.

"We are finishing this discussion."

You fold the ladder.

"Fine. But for the record—" You poke Him in the chest one last time. "Still a little shit."

The Emperor looks down at the finger resting against His armor.

"...I could conquer a thousand worlds before sunset."

"I know."

"I command the greatest armies humanity has ever assembled."

"I know."

"I possess psychic power beyond mortal comprehension."

"I know."

"And yet..." He looks at the folded ladder. "...I have somehow lost this argument to furniture."

You grin.

"Not furniture."

You pat the ladder affectionately.

"My emotional support altitude."

For perhaps the second time in His entire existence, the Emperor laughs without trying to hide it. The sound echoes through the throne room. Every Custodian present silently agree on one thing. No one would ever believe this had happened.

Custodes

Constantin Valdor

The argument has reached a stalemate. Constantin Valdor stands with his hands clasped behind his back, every inch the First Captain-General of the Legio Custodes. Towering well over eight feet tall in burnished auramite, he looks as immovable as a mountain. His partner, on the other hand, looks thoroughly unimpressed.

"...You're impossible."

"I disagree."

"You always disagree."

"When appropriate."

"When isn't it appropriate?"

Valdor considers the question.

"...I would require additional context."

"Oh, for—" You pinch the bridge of your nose. "No. Stay right there."

"I had not intended to move."

"You'd better not."

Without another word, you turn and disappear down the corridor. Valdor watches them leave. One of the Custodians stationed nearby shifts his gaze toward his Captain-General.

"Should we—"

"No."

"But—"

"They will return."

"...Yes, my lord."

Silence settles over the hall. Then comes an unfamiliar sound. Scrrrrape. Valdor's eyes lift. Scrape. Scrape. You round the corner dragging a ladder behind you. Valdor stares.

"..."

His expression doesn’t change. But somewhere behind those calm gray eyes, a very old warrior is attempting to determine why a ladder has suddenly entered what had previously been a perfectly ordinary disagreement. His partner stops directly in front of him. Unfold the ladder. Clack. Step onto it. Clack. Another step. Now you are nearly eye level. Valdor looks from your face... To the ladder... Then back again.

"...Explain."

"No."

You point a finger squarely at his chest.

"Listen here, you little shit."

...

...

The Custodians lining the corridor collectively stop existing as individuals. Not physically. Mentally. One of them is certain he's just hallucinated. Valdor remains perfectly still. He looks at the finger poking the center of his breastplate. Then at the person attached to it.

Then, with complete sincerity, he asks, "...You acquired a ladder."

"Yes."

"To compensate for the difference in our height."

"Correct."

"So that you could call me..." He pauses. "...little."

"Exactly."

"..."

Another long silence. You wait. The nearby Custodians wait. Even the Palace servitors seem to pause. Finally—

"I see."

"...That's it?"

"I understand your methodology."

"My methodology?"

"You wished to eliminate a tactical disadvantage before commencing your verbal assault."

You blink.

"...I..."

"..."

"I mean..."

You look down at the ladder.

"...Yeah."

"I respect thorough preparation."

A laugh escapes you.

"You are unbelievable."

"I have been informed of this."

"No, seriously."

You double over slightly, laughing now.

"I dragged this thing halfway across the Palace expecting you to get offended."

"I was curious."

"Curious?"

"I had not previously encountered this strategy."

You wipe a tear from the corner of your eye.

"So, you're not mad?"

"I fail to see why I would be."

"I called you a little shit."

"You employed observable irony."

"I did."

"You are aware that I remain significantly taller."

"Details."

"You required artificial elevation."

"I refuse to let facts ruin my moment."

Valdor regards you for another long second. Then... Very deliberately... He bends one knee. Lowering himself until you are standing face-to-face without the ladder.

"There."

His voice remains as calm as ever.

"The ladder is no longer necessary."

You stare.

"...You...Did you just kneel?"

"Yes."

"So I wouldn't need the ladder?"

"Correct."

"..."

"..."

"That..." You cover your face with both hands. "...That was actually really sweet."

"I believed it to be practical."

"No, Constantin."

You step down from the ladder and wrap your arms around his neck.

"That was adorable."

Valdor looks mildly perplexed.

"I do not believe I qualify as adorable."

"You absolutely do."

"I have slain warlords."

"I know."

"I have personally ended civilizations."

"I know."

"I command the Ten Thousand."

"I know."

"And yet..." He glances at the abandoned step ladder. "I am apparently adorable."

You smile brightly.

"The cutest."

One of the younger Custodians makes the catastrophic mistake of snorting. Silence. Every eye in the corridor turns toward him. The Custodian immediately straightens.

"My apologies, Captain-General."

Valdor looks at him.

"...For?"

"...I..." The young warrior visibly struggles. "...Nothing, my lord."

"I thought as much."

You are trying, and failing, not to laugh. Valdor notices.

"You find this amusing."

"I find you amusing."

"I was unaware I possessed comedic qualities."

"Oh, Constantin."

You reach over, pat his cheek affectionately, and smile with the unmistakable satisfaction of someone who has just won an argument in the most ridiculous way possible.

"You don't even realize you're funny."

Valdor is silent for a moment. Then he looks at the step ladder. Looks back at you.

"...Would you like me to carry that?"

You burst into laughter all over again.

"You know what?"

"What?"

"I love you."

Without hesitation, without embarrassment, and without a single glance toward the horrified Custodians pretending not to watch, Valdor answers in the same steady tone he uses for every absolute truth.

"I know."

Then, after the briefest pause, he reaches over, fold the ladder with practiced efficiency, tuck it neatly under one arm, offer his other arm to his partner, and says, "Come."

"Where are we going?"

"You have demonstrated considerable effort in conducting this discussion."

"...I have."

"It would be discourteous not to reward such commitment."

A smile tugs at your lips.

"You're buying me dinner because I called you a little shit from a ladder?"

Valdor thinks about it.

"...When you phrase it that way...Yes."

As you walked away together, his partner happily chatting, Valdor carrying the step ladder as though it were just another piece of campaign equipment, the Custodians watch in stunned silence. Only after they have disappeared around the corner does one of them finally speak.

"...Did the Captain-General just carry the ladder?"

Another nods slowly.

"He did."

"...Should someone retrieve it later?"

"He is retrieving it."

"...Right."

A long pause follows.

Then the youngest Custodian quietly mutters, "...I'm never going to convince anyone this happened."

"No."

His brother Custodian sighs.

"You really aren't."

Amon Tauromachian

Amon Tauromachian has faced things that would have broken lesser beings. He has stood against warriors bred for slaughter. He has walked through battlefields where the air itself seemed to scream. He has watched entire armies collide and remained perfectly composed. None of that prepared him for his partner silently leaving the room in the middle of an argument. Amon watches them go.

"..."

He waits. A Custodian is patient by nature. Patience is discipline. Discipline is control. Therefore, he will wait. A minute passes. Then two. Then came the sound. Scrape. Amon's brow lifts slightly. Scrape. The sound grows closer. Then his partner appears. With a step ladder.

Amon stares. Not because it is threatening. Not because it is confusing. Because, in all his years of service, he has never once needed to develop a tactical response to someone approaching a Custodian with household furniture. You set the ladder down. Open it. Clack. Amon looks at it. Then at them.

"...What is the purpose of this?"

You climb. One step. Then another. Until you are finally high enough to look him directly in the eyes. Amon's expression remains neutral. Barely.

"Ah. I understand."

You smile.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"You know exactly what I'm doing?"

"You are attempting to correct the disadvantage created by our difference in height."

"Exactly."

"By employing a ladder."

"Exactly."

Amon considers this.

"...Efficient."

You point at him.

"Listen here, you little shit—"

The silence afterwards is extraordinary. Amon doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t recoil. He doesn’t show offense. But there is a very noticeable pause. A pause belonging to a man who has fought monsters and somehow found this more difficult to categorize.

"...Little."

"Yes."

"You are aware that I am a Custodian."

"Yes."

"That I am considerably larger than you."

"Yes."

"That I could lift this ladder with one hand."

"Also yes."

"Yet you have chosen this approach."

"Because I needed to establish dominance."

Amon looks down. Then up. Then back down.

"...With a ladder."

"Yes."

A silence. Then— The smallest hint of amusement crosses his face. It is so subtle most people would have missed it. But his partner know him well enough.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You think this is funny."

"I did not say that."

"You almost smiled."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I observed the situation."

"You observed it with amusement."

"That is an inaccurate interpretation."

"You're terrible at admitting you're entertained."

"I am a Custodian."

"That isn't an excuse."

"It is an explanation."

You laugh. Amon watches you for a moment. The argument has entirely fallen apart. Somehow, somewhere between the ladder and the insult, the original point had been lost. Which is, he supposes, your strategy.

"You realize," he says, "that this has not strengthened your argument."

"No."

"It has only made the argument more difficult to take seriously."

"Also no."

"It has made me question your judgment."

"Do you question my love?"

Amon pauses. The answer comes immediately.

"No."

The teasing fades slightly. Because for all his composure, Amon Tauromachian isn’t incapable of affection. He simply expresses it differently. Quietly. Deliberately. Like everything else.

"You are reckless," he says.

"You like that about me."

"I tolerate it."

"You like it."

Amon looks away. A mistake. Because you immediately notice.

"Oh, you totally like it."

"I did not say that."

"You didn't have to."

Amon sighs. A rare sound. Not irritation. Resignation.

"You have weaponized familiarity."

"And?"

"And it is remarkably effective."

You grin.

"So I win?"

"No."

"No?"

"No."

You gasp dramatically.

"What do you mean no?"

"I mean you have successfully disrupted the argument."

"That's winning."

"It is not."

"It absolutely is."

Amon looks at the ladder. Then at you. Then, with the calm practicality of someone solving a battlefield problem, he reaches down and picks both you and the ladder up effortlessly.

"Hey!"

"You have achieved your desired height."

"Put me down."

"No."

"Amon."

"No."

"This is unfair."

"You introduced unconventional equipment into a verbal dispute."

"You can't use my own tactics against me."

"I can."

A pause.

"...I hate that you're right."

"I am aware."

He carries you away from the ladder, expression unreadable. But the faintest trace of amusement remains. And that, more than anything, would have shocked anyone watching. Because Amon Tauromachian has faced horrors beyond imagination. Yet the greatest challenge he has encountered was apparently a smaller human being with a step ladder, an attitude, and absolutely no fear of him. Amon decided he doesn’t mind. Not even slightly.

Valerian

Valerian has faced many unusual circumstances throughout his long existence. He has fought beside warriors who believed themselves destined to reshape the galaxy. He has studied alien cultures whose minds operated in ways utterly foreign to humanity. But he has never, in all his years as a Custodian, encounters someone who walks out of an argument to acquire a step ladder.

He watches his partner disappear down the hallway. Then waits. Patiently. A Custodian doesn’t rush. A Custodian observes. A Custodian— Scrape. Valerian looks toward the sound. Scrape. His eyebrows rise slightly. You return with a ladder. For a moment, Valerian simply regards the object. Not with suspicion. Not with confusion. With genuine intellectual interest.

"...That is unexpected."

You smile.

"Good."

"Good?"

"You weren't expecting it."

"No."

"Excellent."

You place the ladder in front of him. Valerian watches as you unfold it. Clack. One step. Clack. Another. The corner of his mouth threatens to move. Threaten. He suppresses it. Barely.

"You have prepared an escalation."

"Exactly."

"With a ladder."

"Yes."

"A device normally intended for reaching elevated objects."

"Correct."

"Now being used to reach an elevated argument."

You point at him.

"See? You get it."

"I believe I understand the concept."

"Good."

You reach the top step. Now, finally, you are closer to eye level. You lift one finger.

"Listen here, you little shit."

Valerian stares. A pause. A very long pause. Then his eyes flick down to the ladder. Then back to you.

"I must admit..."

"Oh?"

"I did not anticipate this."

"Are you offended?"

"No."

"Really?"

"No."

"Not even a little?"

Valerian tilts his head.

"I am attempting to determine whether I should be impressed by the audacity or concerned by the methodology."

You crossed you arms.

"It worked."

"Did it?"

"Yes."

"Our argument remains unresolved."

"..."

"But you have succeeded in making me reconsider my position."

You blink.

"Wait, really?"

"Yes."

"Because of the ladder?"

"Because of the confidence with which you deployed it."

You stare.

"Are you complimenting my ability to be annoying?"

"I am complimenting your commitment."

A smile breaks across you face.

"You like me."

"I have never disputed that."

The answer came so simply that it catches you off guard. Valerian isn’t someone who hides behind grand declarations. He has spent millennia surrounded by warriors who treat emotion as something secondary to duty. But he has learned something over the years. Humans aren’t defined only by their victories. Sometimes they were defined by the ridiculous things they did when they felt safe. Including climbing a ladder to insult a Custodian.

"You know," you say, "most people would be offended."

"Most people are not Custodes."

"Most Custodes would be offended."

"Most Custodes have less patience than I do."

"Valerian."

"Yes?"

"You just insulted your own brothers."

"I made an observation."

You laugh. A genuine laugh. Valerian watches you for a moment. Then looks at the ladder again.

"I have a question."

"What?"

"Did you retrieve this before or after deciding what you intended to say?"

You hesitate.

"...After."

"Interesting."

"Why?"

"Because that indicates improvisation."

"Yes."

"And yet the execution was remarkably confident."

"Thank you."

"I did not say it was wise."

"Still counts."

A faint smile appears.

"You are aware that I could simply pick you up and remove the ladder."

"You wouldn't."

"No."

The immediate answer surprises you.

"You wouldn't?"

"No."

"Why?"

Valerian looks at you. Because the truth is simple. Because after centuries of serving a golden god-emperor and standing among beings designed for perfection, there is something strangely precious about someone who can still be silly.

"Because you are happy."

The teasing expression softens.

"And?"

"And I find that worth preserving."

For once, you have no immediate comeback. Valerian waits patiently. Then:

"Have you finished proving your point?"

You consider.

"...Maybe."

"That is not a definitive answer."

"I might need another minute on the ladder."

"I see."

A pause.

"Very well."

"You'll let me stay up here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Curiosity."

"Curiosity?"

"I wish to see how long you intend to maintain this position."

You narrow your eyes.

"Are you studying me?"

"Perhaps."

"That's weird."

"I am a Custodian."

"That's not a defense."

"It has historically been effective."

You laugh again. Valerian, the guardian of humanity's greatest secrets, the warrior who had endured countless wars and witnessed the strangest corners of the galaxy, decides that this is perhaps one of the more fascinating mysteries he has ever encountered. He still disagrees with your point, but he will never admit how much he enjoyed the method.

Ra Endymion

Ra Endymion has fought monsters. Actual monsters. He has faced warriors who believed themselves gods, creatures that defied reason, and enemies whose very existence challenged the laws of nature. None of them have ever made him question his tactical understanding of a situation quite like this. Because none of them have ever left an argument, returned with a step ladder, and marched directly back toward him with the confidence of someone preparing for war. Ra watches his partner approach. The ladder dragging behind you. A long silence follows.

"...No."

You stop.

"No?"

"No."

"You don't even know what I'm doing."

"I have sufficient experience to predict that this will somehow make the situation more complicated."

You smile.

"Incorrect."

"Is it?"

"Yes."

You set the ladder down. Clack. Ra stares at it. Then at them. Then at the ladder again.

"...I am curious."

"About what?"

"Whether I should be impressed by the creativity or concerned by the commitment."

"Both."

"A fair answer."

You climb. One step. Two. Three. Until you are finally close enough to look him in the eyes. Ra's expression remains calm. But his eyes betray him. There is confusion there. Just the genuine bewilderment of a warrior encountering a strategy he has never been trained for. You point at him.

"Listen here, you little shit."

A silence. A profound silence. Ra Endymion, one of the Ten Thousand, stand perfectly still. Then:

"...Did you just call me little?"

"Yes."

"While standing on a ladder."

"Yes."

"That you brought here specifically because I am taller than you."

"Yes."

Ra looks away. Not because he is offended. Because he is losing a battle. A battle against the urge to laugh.

"I see."

"You see?"

"Yes."

"Explain."

"You have identified the one disadvantage in this disagreement."

"Which is?"

"That I am significantly taller."

"Exactly."

"And instead of accepting that reality..."

"I rejected it."

"Through furniture."

"Through tactical elevation."

Ra closes his eyes. For a moment, he looks almost like he us praying for patience. Because he has just realized his partner is completely serious.

"You prepared a battlefield advantage."

"Correct."

"Using a household object."

"Correct."

"To insult me."

"Correct."

A pause.

"...I cannot decide whether this is the most foolish thing I have witnessed or one of the most impressive."

"Both."

Ra opens his eyes. There it is. A tiny smile. Barely there. But there. You immediately notice.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"You smiled."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I considered the situation."

"With amusement."

"Perhaps."

"Ra."

"Yes?"

"You think I'm funny."

"I think you are unpredictable."

"That's a nicer way of saying funny."

"I did not say that."

"You implied it."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did."

Ra sighs. The kind of sigh that only came from someone who knows the argument is already lost.

"Do you realize how many people in the Imperium would be terrified to speak to me this way?"

"Yes."

"And you chose to do so."

"Yes."

"Why?"

You shrug.

"Because you're my partner."

That answer catches him. Not because it is profound. Because it is simple. Ra has spent so much of his existence being viewed as something other than a person. A weapon. A guardian. A perfect warrior crafted for a singular purpose. But his partner doesn’t see the armor. You see him.

"You are aware," Ra says quietly, "that I could simply pick you up and place you on the floor."

"You could."

"And the ladder."

"You could."

"And end this display."

"You could."

"But I won't."

"No."

A pause.

"You know me well."

"I do."

Ra looks at the ladder. Then at them. Then, with complete seriousness, he reaches down and lifts the ladder away.

"Hey."

"Your advantage has been removed."

"That is cheating."

"It is not."

"It is absolutely cheating."

"It is removing a variable."

"You're such a Custodian."

"I am."

You fold your arms.

"You know I still think I'm right."

"I know."

"And?"

"I disagree."

"And?"

"But I enjoyed the method."

You stare.

"Was that a compliment?"

"Yes."

"From you?"

"Yes."

"Should I write this down?"

"No."

"Too late."

Ra shakes his head. But this time he doesn’t hide the smile. The greatest warriors of the Imperium could defeat armies and withstand horrors beyond human comprehension. But none of them had been trained for an opponent who arrived armed with a step ladder and absolute confidence.

Ra Endymion had survived the worst the galaxy could offer. He wasn’t sure he would survive being loved by someone this ridiculous. Strangely enough... He finds he prefers it that way.

Malcador the sigillite

Malcador the Sigillite has been called many things. The Emperor's right hand. The architect of the Imperium. The hidden hand behind humanity's greatest ambitions. A master of secrets. A keeper of knowledge. A man who had outwitted kings, generals, and beings who believed themselves above mortal understanding. He wasn’t, however, prepared for his partner to disappear in the middle of an argument and return carrying a step ladder. Malcador looks up from his work. Then looka at the ladder. Then looka back at you.

"...No."

You smile.

"You don't even know what I'm doing."

"I know enough."

"You underestimate me."

"I have spent several thousand years around the Emperor. I assure you, I do not."

You places the ladder down. Clack. Malcador narrows his eyes.

"Explain."

"No."

"That is concerning."

"It's fine."

"Those are words people say immediately before doing something that is not fine."

You ignore him. One step. Clack. Two. Clack. Until you stand at a height where you can finally look him directly in the eye. Malcador stares then slowly rubs his forehead.

"Of all the things I have witnessed..."

"Yes?"

"...I must admit this is new."

You point at him.

"Listen here, you little shit."

Silence. A long silence. Malcador blinks. Then he looks down. At the ladder. Then up.

"You climbed a ladder."

"Yes."

"To insult me."

"Yes."

"Because I am shorter than you."

"Yes."

Malcador stares. Then a smile begins to form. Not a large one. Not an obvious one. Just the faintest crack in the expression of a man who has spent his entire life maintaining absolute control.

"You know..."

"What?"

"The Emperor has called me many things."

"Good things?"

"Some."

"Bad things?"

"Many."

"And?"

"And somehow, this is the first time I have been insulted using carpentry."

You laugh. Malcador's smile grows slightly.

"You planned this."

"Of course."

"You thought about it."

"Yes."

"You located the ladder."

"Yes."

"You carried it here."

"Yes."

"All while angry."

"Yes."

He nods slowly.

"I admire the dedication."

"You do?"

"Naturally."

You look surprised.

"You aren't offended?"

"My dear, I have spent my life arguing with the most stubborn being in existence."

"The Emperor?"

"Who else?"

Malcador leans slightly on his cane.

"After that, a person standing on a ladder and calling me names barely registers."

You grin.

"So I'm easier to deal with than the Emperor?"

"Significantly."

"Wow."

"Do not become arrogant."

"Too late."

"I noticed."

You smile proudly. Malcador shakes his head.

"You do realize the ladder has not actually improved your argument."

"It improved my position."

"Literally."

"Exactly."

"...That was almost clever."

"Almost?"

"I said almost."

"You smiled."

"I did not."

"You did."

"I am old. My face does strange things."

"Malcador."

"Yes?"

"You are impossible."

He gives you a pointed look.

"That is my line."

You laugh again. Malcador, despite himself, feels the tension of the argument dissolves. He has spent centuries surrounded by people who fear him. People who bowed. People who obeyed. People who measured every word before speaking. But this person? This person climbed a ladder just to call him a little shit. He finds that comforting. Because it meant they were not afraid of him. Malcador sighs.

"Come down."

"No."

"Why?"

"You haven't admitted I'm right."

"I have not."

"Then I'm staying."

"How long?"

"Until you admit it."

Malcador looks at the ladder. Then at them. Then toward the ceiling, as if seeking patience from whatever higher powers might exist.

"Do you know what is truly remarkable?"

"What?"

"I have manipulated the course of human history."

"Mhm."

"I have orchestrated wars."

"Mhm."

"I have negotiated with beings of unimaginable power."

"Mhm."

"And yet..." He taps the ladder with his cane. "I am being held hostage by a stubborn person with a piece of household equipment."

You smile.

"So you admit I'm winning."

"No."

"You just described me as holding you hostage."

"An accurate observation."

"Which means I'm winning."

"It means you are persistent."

"That's a compliment."

"It was not intended as one."

"It still counts."

Malcador sighs. A real sigh. Then, with the resignation of a man who had accepted defeat at the hands of the most ridiculous force in the galaxy, he reached up and gently tapped the ladder.

"Very well."

You look down.

"Very well what?"

"I concede that your method was effective."

A grin.

"Say I'm right."

"No."

"Say it."

"Absolutely not."

"Malcador."

"No."

"Mal."

"No."

You cross your arms.

"You're such a stubborn old man."

"And you are standing on a ladder."

"Fair."

"Now come down before you fall and force me to explain to the Emperor how I allowed my partner to be defeated by gravity."

You laugh and climb down. Malcador catches your hand as you reach the floor.

"You are aware," he says quietly, "that almost anyone else would have been terrified to speak to me that way."

"I know."

"And you are not."

"No."

"Why?"

You shrug.

"Because you're Malcador."

For once, the Sigillite has no immediate response. Then he smiles. Small. Genuine.

"That," he says, "is perhaps the most dangerous thing anyone has ever said to me."

"Why?"

"Because you mean it."