The sky was the dull bronze of a dying sun when the summons came.
Aurelius was still in the pass, checking the integrity of the hastily reinforced barricades. He preferred to repair the works himself rather than leave it to engineers; a line was only as strong as the one who trusted it.
A shadow fell across the ridge.
A Thunderhawk, bearing no Chapter markings, descended on silent grav-thrusters. The pilot brought it down in a wash of dust. From its ramp stepped two Custodians in the crimson cloaks of the Tribune's Guard.
"Shield-Brother Aurelius," the taller of the two said, voice resonating even without amplification. "You are summoned to the Strategium aboard the Invictus Aeternum. Your presence is requested by name."
Aurelius inclined his head.
Few requests in the Custodes were truly requests. This was an order — but an order from high enough up the chain to make even veteran Captains pause.
He boarded without ceremony. The Guardsmen who had fought beside him watched in silence.
The Invictus Aeternum was a void-borne fortress, part warship, part shrine.
As he walked its gold-and-ebony corridors, Aurelius felt the familiar weight of the Throne's proximity. This vessel had departed Terra less than a standard year ago, still carrying the scent of the sanctum in its chambers.
The Strategium doors parted.
A ring of hololithic projectors cast a tactical display of a star system Aurelius did not recognize — three inhabited worlds, one of them flickering with distress signals.
At the center stood Tribune Veyoras, his armor chased with black etchings of service before the Throne itself.
"Aurelius," Veyoras said, as if greeting a peer, not a junior. "Your actions in the pass have been noted. More importantly, they have been reported."
Aurelius stood still. "I followed my orders, Tribune."
Veyoras's eyes flickered with the barest trace of approval.
"Indeed. And now your orders will take you beyond this sector. There is a world on the edge of the Golthan Expanse — Caltrius Secundus. Reports of an uprising are… imprecise. What is certain is the presence of warp interference, strong enough to cripple the Astropathic choir. We will not send an army. We will send you."
Aurelius studied the display. "If the warp is bleeding through, psykers will be compromised. Communication will be impossible."
"Which is why you go," Veyoras said. "You are… difficult for the warp to touch. And there are whispers that whatever stirs on Caltrius is seeking to open a gate. That will not happen."
Aurelius inclined his head. "Understood."
The Tribune leaned forward slightly.
"You will have two Custodians for support — Shield-Brothers Varian and Malcor — and a company of Orestian Rifles already in-system. They will see you as the Emperor's word made flesh. Do not disabuse them of the notion."
The drop to Caltrius was through cloud cover thick with static.
Aurelius felt the pressure as soon as the Thunderhawk breached atmosphere — the heavy, sour taste of the warp lingering in the air.
Beside him, Varian muttered, "This is no ordinary insurrection."
The city below was walled but burning, banners of black and brass unfurling from its towers.
Even from this height, Aurelius's Observation Haki caught fragments — the jagged hunger of Chaos cultists, the fear of civilians driven into the streets as shields, the cold discipline of traitor Guard officers directing the slaughter.
As the Thunderhawk's ramp dropped, Aurelius spoke to the Orestian captain over vox.
"Hold your perimeter. Do not advance until I say. Today, you will not break."
The Custodians stepped into the chaos.
The first wave came to meet them — masked cultists with las-carbines and blades chipped from machine parts.
Aurelius's Conqueror's Haki pulsed outward in a steady beat, stripping the charge from their rush, slowing feet, shaking hands. Varian and Malcor flanked him, their spears moving in mirrored arcs, each strike dropping a foe without pause.
When the enemy line broke, Aurelius pushed forward, cutting through the streets toward the great square at the city's heart.
There, above a cracked fountain, a psyker in tattered Ecclesiarchy robes was chanting, eyes gone white, hands raised to the sky.
Warp-light shimmered above him — the beginnings of a tear.
Aurelius's Armament surged, coating the edge of his spear. He crossed the square in a heartbeat, cleaving through the cultists who barred his way. The psyker's gaze snapped to him, and the warp clawed at the air between them.
For a moment, the force pressed against Aurelius's mind — and shattered against the wall of his will.
"You will open nothing here," Aurelius said.
The spear thrust was clean, swift, and final. The warp-light guttered and died.
By the time the Orestians advanced, the square was secured, the surviving cultists bound.
Varian looked at Aurelius and said simply, "The Emperor's errand is done."
Aurelius glanced toward the still-smoking horizon. "No. This was only the first step."