Deep beneath the golden heart of Rome, reborn under the Emperor's hand, a vast chamber pulsed with psychic resonance and arcane technology. The Sanctum Primaris. In this sacred vault, lined with immense golden pillars and circuits that hummed with power drawn from science far beyond this age, stood eighteen towering pods.
Each pod, immense, glowing with stasis energy, held the sleeping form of a demigod
.
The Primarchs.
They were not children. No. These were adults, fully grown, fully formed, but only now awakening, their minds untouched by false memories, unspoiled by war or ruin. They were clean slates. Gods reborn as men.
The Emperor stood alone before them, wreathed in light, His psychic presence bathing the chamber in warmth and strength. His golden robes shimmered as psychic flames flickered around His form.
At His side, stood Horus, the First. The vanguard. His wolf-sigilled golden armor gleamed, his expression calm and firm, watching with pride as his brothers were about to awaken.
With a thought, the Emperor sent a wave of power through the chamber.
The vault trembled.
Steam hissed from the seals. Lights pulsed. Ancient locks disengaged. And then, one by one, the pods opened.
First came Sanguinius, his mighty white wings unfurling as golden light bathed his angelic form. Graceful and radiant, his eyes scanned the chamber with wonder.
Then Roboute Guilliman, whose presence already carried command. Sharp, methodical, eyes calculating but not cold.
Leman Russ, primal and alert, stepped forth with a low growl, the scent of war already rousing something deep within him.
Magnus the Red emerged, his lone eye burning faintly with psychic potential, his aura crackling with raw knowledge begging to be understood.
Rogal Dorn, already standing tall and disciplined, was like a fortress given flesh, calm, vigilant, indomitable.
Fulgrim, radiant and poised, admired the artistry of his surroundings with a soft smile of pride.
Ferrus Manus, his arms lined with metal, flexed instinctively, marveling at the raw force that coursed through his frame.
Perturabo, his gaze dark and thoughtful, immediately began calculating the mechanics of the chamber, already burdened by the weight of comprehension.
Lion El'Jonson stepped from the shadows of his pod, stoic and silent, but his eyes ever watching.
Angron followed, his eyes confused but calm, free of torment, free of the pain that never came to pass in this world.
Konrad Curze, pale and shadowed, emerged like a ghost, his eyes distant, already caught in silent contemplation.
Alpharius, with his twin Omegon, both identical and unreadable, stood beside each other, silent, already part of something deeper.
Jaghatai Khan stepped forward, laughter in his eyes, energy in his steps, already longing for speed, wind, and motion.
Mortarion, quiet and brooding, emerged slowly, his presence heavy, but lacking the rot or corruption of another fate.
Lorgar, awe-struck by the Emperor's presence, already burned with unspoken reverence in his heart.
Vulkan, tall and warm, stepped forward with gentle strength, his kindness radiating even in silence.
And lastly, Corvus Corax, who emerged silently like the shadow of a dream, watchful, brooding, graceful in movement.
Eighteen. Eighteen sons.
The Emperor looked upon them not with judgment, but with pride, deep, unshakable pride.
"You are awake," He said, His voice a thunder that echoed through time and soul.
"You are my sons. Each of you bears strength unparalleled. Each of you carries within you the light of a future that must never fall to darkness."
"You are not myths. You are not the broken dreams of a forgotten future. You are real. You are now."
"You were not scattered across the stars. You were not twisted by war. You were born together. And you will remain together."
"You are my angels."
He raised His arms, psychic power flowing into every soul in the chamber like a flood of purpose and clarity.
"You will be the shield of mankind, the blade of humanity. Where chaos spreads, you will bring order. Where tyrants rise, you will bring liberation. Where hope fades, you will be the dawn."
"You are not born to conquer... but to protect. Not to rule by fear... but to inspire with truth."
Horus stepped forward, nodding in respect. "Brothers," he said, voice resonating, "we are the light our father has long prepared. Let us walk forward, unbroken."
One by one, the newly awakened Primarchs knelt before the Emperor.
He stepped to Angron, who looked up with questioning eyes, uncertain.
"You will never know slavery," the Emperor said gently, resting His hand on Angron's shoulder. "Not in this world. Not in my world."
To Curze, who trembled beneath visions not yet understood, He said, "You are not bound to darkness. You are free to define your own path."
And to all, He declared:
"Rise, my sons. The time has come. The stars await."
In the vault beneath Rome, the legends of tomorrow stood tall.
Eighteen brothers. One purpose.
The Great Crusade was no longer a dream.
It was destiny, reborn.