Part I - Two Goodbyes
The departure of Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium, for the Indomitus Crusade was marked by two distinct goodbyes, a stark dichotomy of personal anguish and public duty that tore at Aurelia's heart. The first transpired in the hushed intimacy of her private chambers within the Golden Tower. There, Aurelia, stripping away the mantle of the Absolute Regent, permitted herself the profound vulnerability of a younger sister. She clung to her brother, sobbing into his magnificent robes, tears of genuine, agonising fear for his perilous journey, for the precariousness of his very life. She allowed herself to feel utterly, completely human, seeking solace in the resonant thrum of his voice, in his words of comfort, of tender hope, urging her to believe, just as he believed in her. It was a fleeting, precious moment, a silent pact against the monstrous indifference of the galaxy.
Then came the public farewell. Aurelia, clad in her robes of state, her aura radiating both profound authority and an underlying sorrow, stood as the Princess-Regent, bidding a formal, weighty farewell to her Lord Commander. It was a stoic ceremony, a necessary piece of theatre for the teeming billions watching across the Imperium, a show of unified resolve for the long war ahead.
Aurelia watched from the highest aeries of the Imperial Palace as millions of soldiers, the faithful of the Astra Militarum, streamed aboard the colossal warships. The void above Terra swarmed with the largest fleet humanity had assembled since the dark days of the Heresy itself. As they had meticulously agreed in their intricate strategems, the Gladius Aeternitas and the Imperatoris Lux, the only two Aeternum-Maximus Class Behemoths—each a continent-sized leviathan and a triumph of forbidden technology—would serve as the primary command vessels for the Indomitus Crusade. Segmentum Solar, the very heart of the Imperium, could not be left undefended. Thus, the Imperatoris Lux remained anchored in the Sol System, a peerless spear and shield for the Throneworld, while the Gladius Aeternitas embarked at the head of the fleet, its prow cutting through the celestial currents. Concurrently, the Phalanx, Rogal Dorn's mighty mobile fortress-monastery, lumbered into the Sol System, its battle-scarred hull testifying to the grievous toll exacted by the War for Cadia and the relentless tide of Abaddon's Thirteenth Black Crusade.
Yet, beyond the sheer logistical marvel, Aurelia's celestial gaze encompassed the true meaning of the departing armada. She saw thousands of Space Marines from a dozen Chapters, the unified remnants of the loyal legions, an army with one singular goal, one desperate purpose, led by one man. It was humanity's last, desperate gambit, a final, fervent prayer against the looming abyss of extinction.
It was the dawn of M42, the opening of a new chronological chapter for the Imperium—a stark, undeniable truth that presaged not an age of glory, but the beginning of a bloody, unforgiving millennium.
And Aurelia, Princess-Regent, Guardian of Hope, vowed, with a fierce and unyielding resolve forged in primordial fire, that the Imperium would survive.
Having bid a heartfelt, dual farewell to her brother, Aurelia wasted no time. Her elegant robes rustling with purpose, she descended deep into her subterranean laboratories within the Golden Tower—a realm of perpetual industry and secret wonders. A small retinue of Imperial Fists awaited her there, grim-faced and unwavering, led by their Captain Tor Garadon.
"Your Highness," Tor Garadon whispered, dropping to one knee with a heavy thud of ceramite, his gaze fixed on the polished floor.
"Rise, son of Dorn," Aurelia commanded softly, yet with an unyielding grace that compelled obedience. "You have bled so profoundly for Terra, for all of humanity. I will not see you kneel in prolonged supplication. I have seen the damage reports on the Phalanx and the immense toll exacted. It will require considerable time to rebuild her to her former glory."
"We have indeed lost so many, Your Highness," Garadon added, his voice a low, rough rumble, laden with the grief of a million souls lost.
"I have also received a report from my Shield-Captain Valerian regarding the engagements with the… Minotaurs," she stated, her voice even. A visible scowl, swift and profound, marred Dessian's face. Around him, the other Imperial Fists stiffened, their collective outrage at the mere mention of the hated Chapter almost palpable.
"Savages," Garadon muttered, his tone venomous. "Every single one of them."
"I have already issued orders for the Shadowkeepers to unseal one of their deepest Dark Cells," Aurelia continued, cutting through the Imperial Fist's simmering anger with serene authority. "They will provide you with specific, restricted technologies to expedite the Phalanx's reconstruction. Furthermore, I have made personal additions to these schematics, incorporating Noverrium and other advancements unique to my craft." As she spoke, she handed Dessian a data-slate, its surface shimmering with holographic projections of intricate designs that immediately captivated the Imperial Fists. Their grim visages shifted from weariness to awe.
"Your Highness, this… this is beyond comprehension!" Garadon gasped, tracing a complex schematic with a gloved finger.
"It will indeed require time, Captain, but while your Chapter Master is busy, we can start rebuilding it," Aurelia acknowledged, a gentle smile returning to her lips. "And once completed, the Phalanx will stand ready to wage war in this tumultuous new age, more formidable than ever before." Her smile then faded, her celestial eyes darkening with a grave seriousness. "Nevertheless, Chapter Master, did you bring… his remains?"
Tor Garadon's features hardened, his head bowing slowly, unsure. "Yes, Your Highness. We have… brought him." A reverent silence filled the chamber as a retinue of Imperial Fists carried a sarcophagus into the laboratory—a casket of pure, white marble, within which lay the fragmented remains of Rogal Dorn, the Praetorian of Terra, butchered by the twisted creations of Chaos cultists. The sight, though expected, filled Aurelia with a wave of deep-rooted sorrow, laced with cold anger. But she found a flicker of defiance. Nothing truly lost. Her path, once ambiguous, was now illuminated. She trusted her own purpose.
"Open it, then. Lay his noble form to rest within," Aurelia commanded, gesturing towards a vast, self-opening pod—a familiar sight. It was an Eden Stasis Pod, identical in function to the one that had cradled her for ten millennia. Now, it would perform its original, sacred function: to resurrect her fallen brothers. She briefly wrestled with the immense ramifications, the sheer audacity of resurrecting a Primarch in an age so far removed from their own. Yet, her choice was clear: if not now, if not this final gambit, humanity was doomed. All that her brothers had fought and died for, all that the Emperor had sacrificed, would have been rendered utterly meaningless.
"My Princess…?" Garadon stuttered, not able to finish his sentence.
The attending Magos looked unbothered by what was said. Still, the Imperial Fists seemed deeply troubled by the order. The Magos binary prayers and silent oaths warring with the rigid Imperial Fist doctrine. Aurelia sighed, a soft, weary sound.
"The Eden Stasis Pod was designed with a singular, profound intention: to resurrect my brothers from the grasp of death, should they fall. It was conceived with the understanding that they might, if they so chose, return to the Imperium." Aurelia stepped closer, her hand resting upon the smooth, luminous surface of the pod, a grim, determined cast to her features. "My father personally commanded its construction. It preserved my body, though its purpose then was not even fully understood. Rest assured. This vessel will not create a mere copy of my brother. Nor will it produce some warped, lesser iteration. No. It will mend his body, rebuild it atom by atom, cell by cell, from the ground up. It will call forth Rogal Dorn, as he was in his final, glorious days. His soul as it was, his mind as it was, his body as it was. The true Praetorian of Terra shall return."
The Imperial Fists stared in stunned silence, their stoicism giving way to an almost spiritual awe as the immense pod hummed with a strange, nascent light. Their belief, once unwavering, now became absolute, touched by a divine, almost zealous faith. With a profound reverence, they carefully laid the remains of their Primarch into the Eden Pod. A team of Magos began their chanting and praying for the machine god, with a feverish, reverent excitement, and swiftly engaged the complex machinery. The pod hummed, its immense doors sealing with a soft hiss as a green, ethereal liquid gracefully enveloped the butchered bones of Rogal Dorn.
"How long will it require?" one of the Imperial Fists finally asked, his voice hushed with wonder.
"We have integrated certain refinements, updates, to the Eden Pod's ancient programming," Aurelia murmured, her gaze fixed on the luminous green liquid, her expression one of quiet, fervent hope. "But even with these advancements… I cannot say. Days. Weeks. Months. Years. As long as it takes for Rogal Dorn to decide again to be Rogal Dorn."
They stood together, Astartes and Regent and Mechanicus alike, while the pod's light made a kind of quiet morning in the deep places of the Tower. When the last rune steadied, Aurelia set her palm flat to the glass once more and closed her eyes.
"Come home, Praetorian," she whispered so softly even her Custodes pretended not to hear. "The walls still need you."
She closed her eyes, mentally closing this profound chapter, consigning it to the vast, patient expanse of waiting.
Part II – The Weight of the Crown
Anna-Murza Jek sat, utterly defeated, the meticulous order of her robes a stark contrast to the chaos within her. She was exhausted, worn down by the insidious games played within the hallowed halls of the Senatorum Imperialis. She was the Consul-Palatina, the very voice of the Princess-Regent, the personal hand of Her Highness in all matters of governance, yet she felt constantly shunted aside, her efforts thwarted by invisible walls of bureaucratic inertia. She knew she was young, undeniably so when compared to the decades-hardened High Lords, and acutely aware of her nascent status in this new realm of immense power. But such trivialities should not be sufficient cause for obstruction. These were her Highness's direct commands, immutable edicts that demanded unquestioning adherence. Why, then, did these venerable High Lords conspire to undermine her, to diminish her authority, to make her feel unworthy of being the Princess's voice?
There she was, again, waiting. The air in the ornate chamber hummed with forced patience. At last, Mar Av Ashariel, Lord Commander Militant of the Senatorum Imperialis, entered. He moved with a glacial deliberateness that Jek suspected was a deliberate slight, his gait unhurried, his eyes cold and stoic. He offered a perfunctory, shallow bow.
"Consul-Palatina," he stated, his voice a gravelly drone. Jek bit her tongue, a physical anchor against the rising tide of frustration, forcing herself to take a deep, calming breath.
"Lord Commander," she replied, her own voice remarkably steady. "I thank you for gracing me with your presence."
"When the Consul of Her Imperial Highness commands, one must, of course, present oneself," he countered, his tone laced with a subtle contempt that Jek felt keenly. She knew that none would dare overtly insult the Princess-Regent without inviting the terrifying scrutiny of the Inquisition and, of course, all the forces of the Princess who would take such words as insubordination. Therefore, this barbed politeness, this thinly veiled insubordination, was directed solely at her.
Jek decided to ignore the thinly veiled slight, her discipline honed by years of surviving political venom. She focused on the urgent matter at hand. "Our previous discourse, Lord Commander, concerned the imperative of reinforcing Terra's planetary defence forces. As you are acutely aware, while the Princess's Lionguard, alongside the newly arrived detachments of Ultramarines and Imperial Fists, have made significant strides in containing the cultist threat, they remain severely outnumbered."
A part of Jek still recoiled at the very notion of Chaos cultists festering on Holy Terra. Could they not see the Princess's radiant light? The Emperor's renewed grace? Could they not perceive the dawn of this new age, heralded by Aurelia's regency and Guilliman's leadership? Jek struggled to comprehend such profound ideological blindness, but she had to acknowledge that, since the Indomitus Crusade began, a new peace had indeed settled over much of Terra. Yes, isolated pockets of resistance, deep tendrils of madness, still plagued certain hive-sectors, but the Princess's touch, her influence, had already yielded miracles: food flowed, resources for reconstruction were allocated, and an extraordinary sense of order and security had been re-established. The very idea that the Princess, with her divine light, repelled Chaos from Terra and the Segmentum Solar allowed even weary mortals to sleep, knowing their sovereign stood vigil.
The Princess's forces, though small in number, were meticulously cleansing Terra of its lingering corruption, but they urgently required additional manpower.
"I recall our last conversation, Consul," Ashariel stated, his voice a guttural grunt, his eyes not leaving his own datapad. "And as I unequivocally stated then: we lack the numbers to provide the required reinforcements."
"Surely, that's a…" Jek began, incredulous.
"Do you grasp the magnitude of the logistical and training apparatus required to arm and equip soldiers, Consul? A division? A planetary army?" Ashariel interrupted, almost hissing, his calm facade momentarily cracking to reveal a simmering resentment. "The Indomitus Crusade has siphoned off the bulk of Terra's standing forces, our finest, best-equipped regiments—millions of souls already committed, with millions more destined to follow. Terra's remaining garrison is severely depleted, and while we are initiating new training programs, we cannot conjure armies from the void. Miracles are beyond our purview, and rebuilding Terra's defensive strength to its former might will require time. Considerable time."
Jek fell silent, biting her tongue so hard she tasted blood. A cold dread seeped into her, an awful realisation. She was ignorant. She, the Consul-Palatina, charged with overseeing the Senatorum, with ensuring no detail was hidden from her, was profoundly ignorant of this vital truth. Every High Lord was mandated to submit their reports, their data-slates, to leave no stone unturned for her. How, then, had she been allowed to remain so tragically uninformed? She debriefed the Princess daily; how could she not have known this?
"That, my lord," Jek retorted, a new, sharp edge to her voice, "is precisely the kind of information that should have been on my desk without delay." Ashariel met her gaze, a hardened war veteran staring down a defiant child. He scoffed, a soft, dismissive sound that made Jek feel as if he had just spat in her face.
"That, Consul, is my designated duty. And I execute it to the best of my current ability. However, as you may perhaps dimly perceive, the Lord Commander of the Imperium, Lord Guilliman, has imposed certain… restraints upon our capacity for independent action," he stated, the resentment in his voice now unmistakable. Jek noted his use of the plural: "us."
Who are 'us'? Jek thought, a flicker of suspicion sparking in her mind.
"Surely you must acknowledge the vital imperative for Her Highness to be fully apprised of all… "
"Her Highness is a relentlessly burdened individual," he interrupted again, cutting her off with chilling precision. "Upon her slender shoulders rests the entirety of the Imperium's precarious future. Her hands are full, grappling with a galactic empire in perpetual decay: drafting decrees to ensure sustenance reaches worlds beyond Terra, bringing glimmers of hope to systems cloaked in darkness, constantly striving to craft new technologies that may yet grant us an edge in this war, all while patching the decaying walls of our planet. All of that, Consul, while also wielding her divine power to repel Chaos, to prevent the Warp from tearing our home apart, and to keep the Emperor's Astronomican strong for all humanity."
Jek's jaw tightened. She found herself utterly speechless. His words, delivered with detached clinical accuracy, were undeniable.
"All the while," Ashariel continued, a barely concealed contempt entering his voice, "the Lord Commander of the Imperium decided to throw a reckless crusade, attempting to change the Imperium from within, before departing and abandoning the rest to us." He almost spat the word "us." "If anything, he appears to have burdened the Princess with more work than he has alleviated."
Ashariel's voice, for all its venom towards Guilliman, sounded clear and true when it came to Aurelia. There was no trace of anger, or envy, or hatred in his words when he spoke of the Princess. Only unadulterated adoration and profound respect. However, the same could most certainly not be said for the Lord Commander of the Imperium.
"So," he concluded, his gaze piercing. "You now comprehend why I possess no desire to burden our Lady, our Highness, with reports of our present ineffectiveness in replenishing Terra's legions."
"I… I still maintain that…" Jek began, her voice faltering.
"Our Lady's hands and shoulders, Consul, cannot bear the burden of our ineptitude," Ashariel stated with unwavering finality. "I shall execute my duties. I shall ensure Terra's forces are ready. And when I do, I shall personally communicate our achievements to our Princess. Not before."
Jek longed to speak, to protest, to articulate the surging desperation within her. But before she could find the words, he spoke again, a clear, unmistakable dismissal in his voice.
"Thank you for your visit, Consul."
Jek felt a gut punch, the sudden, sharp blow of dismissal. She was not being respected; she was being dismissed, toyed with like a symbol, nothing more. It hurt, a deep, lacerating wound to her nascent authority. Before she was fully aware of her actions, she was already walking towards the door. As she exited, the imposing forms of the Lionguard met her, their silent, helmeted gazes seemingly judging her every faltering step. She could not look up, for she felt utterly unfit for the role, too small to bear its weight. A desperate dread gripped her. How would the Princess react to this perceived weakness, this abject failure of trust? Jek would rather die than betray that sacred confidence.
But a gnawing suspicion persisted. Ashariel was not alone in his thinly veiled contempt for Lord Guilliman. Other High Lords, too, had expressed veiled criticisms. Jek knew something was deeply amiss. Something was being concealed, manipulated. She needed to know more. Whatever it takes, she resolved, a fierce spark igniting in her beleaguered soul.
She had been chosen for this. Not to be liked, but to be useful.
The suspicion had taken root and grown into a thorny, choking vine in the manicured gardens of the Senatorum Imperialis. In the days following her confrontation with Ashariel, Anna-Murza Jek saw the conspiracy not as a shadow, but as a subtle, pervasive rot. Decrees issued by the Lord Commander were not refused, but delayed. Resources were not denied, but re-allocated. A quiet, insidious coup was underway, a rebellion fought not with bolters and blades, but with the stiletto of bureaucracy, aimed at hamstringing the Indomitus Crusade before its heart could truly begin to beat. Jek could feel the web being woven, could sense the presence of the spiders, but she had no names, no proof—only the cold, gnawing certainty in her gut.
She was isolated. The Princess was moving among the people, a walking testament to the Imperial promise, visiting the wounded sectors of Terra. It was a brilliant, necessary strategy, transforming her from a distant icon into a tangible, breathing hope. But it left Jek alone in the viper's nest. To vox her suspicions would be reckless, a half-formed accusation that could be easily dismissed, exposing her own weakness. She needed proof, a name to put to the poison.
The High Lords convened in the Hall of Ten Thousand Edicts, the air thick with the dust of ages and the cloying scent of ambition. Jek watched them from her designated station, feeling like a child at a gathering of ancient predators. She saw him—Fadix, the Grand Master of Assassins—a hole in the fabric of the room, a presence defined by its absolute absence. His smile was a razor-thin line in the shadows, and a chill that had nothing to do with the hall's temperature traced a path down her spine. And there, a silent, golden mountain amidst the bickering, sat Captain-General Trajann Valoris. His presence was an enigma. Why was he here, enduring this tedious theatre of power, when he should have been at the Princess's side? The Captain-General's duty was to his charge, yet he sat, impassive and unreadable, as if observing the mating rituals of some lesser, more contemptible species.
The debate, as always, circled back to the endless, festering war in Terra's underbelly. The splinter cults were a hydra, their heads regenerating with infuriating persistence. But the true poison was the Minotaurs. With every joint operation, they left a trail of collateral damage and simmering resentment, their savagery a blunt instrument swung with reckless abandon.
The summons, when it came, felt inevitable. Jek arrived at a vast, echoing chamber, the air so thick with testosterone and contained fury it was difficult to breathe. On one side stood Asterion Moloc, the bull-headed Chapter Master of the Minotaurs, a giant of bronze and barely-leashed brutality. Facing him, their faces masks of cold, controlled rage, were Tor Garadon of the Imperial Fists and a grim-faced Lieutenant of the Ultramarines Victrix Guard.
"Your forces were ponderous," Moloc's voice was a gravelly sneer, a deliberate provocation. "You allowed these traitors to scurry back to their holes while you were still drawing up your tedious battle plans."
"Your 'plan'," the Ultramarine hissed, his hand a white-knuckled fist on the pommel of his gladius, "cost me two good men wounded, and you a single, valuable prisoner who might have told us where those holes were."
"Two Ultramarines wounded?" Moloc chuckled, a low, ugly sound. "A negligible loss, then."
The Lieutenant's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping in his cheek. But it was Garadon's voice, a low, seismic rumble of pure, distilled fury, that made Jek's blood run cold. "One of my men is dead because of your 'charge'."
Moloc tilted his head, amused. "Two Ultramarines wounded? Nothing of worth was lost." His eyes slid to Garadon. "As for you, son of Dorn—walls make you brave. Outside them, your legacy is thinner than your paint."
That was it. The final, unforgivable insult. Garadon took a single, deliberate step forward, and in that instant, the entire chamber became a tinderbox. Ceramite grated on stone as a dozen Astartes, Fists and Ultramarines alike, shifted their weight, their hands moving to their weapons. Jek was frozen, a spectator to a civil war in miniature.
Trust me, you are worthy. And I need you.
The memory of the Princess's voice, of the absolute, unwavering faith she had placed in her, was a lightning strike to Jek's soul. The terror of facing this bronze-clad monster was a cold, hard knot in her stomach, but the terror of failing Aurelia was a supernova. With a strength she did not know she possessed, she stamped her foot, the sharp crack of her heel on the marble a gunshot in the tense silence.
"Enough!" The word, shrill and utterly audacious, ripped from her throat, echoing in the cavernous space. Every visored helm, every enraged face, turned to her. "You will cease this madness. In the name of the Princess-Regent, you will stand down!"
Moloc turned, his gaze a physical weight that threatened to crush her. Jek's hands were trembling, her heart hammering a frantic, panicked rhythm against her ribs, but she held his gaze, her chin held high.
"Woman," he snarled, the word a dismissal, an insult.
"You will address me as Consul-Palatina," Jek snapped, the words tasting of iron and fear. "And you will all remember that you are the Emperor's chosen, not a pack of brawling grox."
"Consul," Garadon grated, his own fury barely contained, "this… brute… has the blood of my brother on his hands. How are we to fight alongside such savages?"
"As long as a single traitor draws breath on Holy Terra, you will," Jek declared, her voice ringing with an authority she was borrowing from a being of infinite light. She turned her gaze back to Moloc. "And you, Chapter Master, will learn the meaning of tactical restraint. There will be no more collateral damage."
Moloc took a step towards her, a predator closing on its prey. In perfect, silent unison, the four Lionguard of her personal retinue shifted, their presence a golden, unbreachable wall at her back.
"By whose authority?" Moloc demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
"By the only authority that matters," Jek said, her voice dropping, each word a shard of ice. "The Princess's writ is the Emperor's will. Her voice is His voice. If you defy it, you will not be censured. You will be declared a traitor. And I swear on the Golden Throne, your precious chapter will be hunted to extinction."
The silence that followed was absolute, a vacuum in which not even a breath dared to move. Jek held his gaze, her entire being focused on the single, desperate bluff. Then, with a curt, almost imperceptible nod, Moloc turned.
"By her will," he said, and stalked from the chamber, his honour guard following in his wake.
The moment they were gone, a wave of vertigo washed over Jek, and she stumbled, her hand finding the solid, reassuring arm of a Lionguard to steady herself.
"You are a woman of considerable courage, Consul," Garadon said, his voice laced with a grudging, newfound respect.
"I suppose," she managed, her own voice a thin, reedy thing. She looked up at the impassive, golden helm of the Lionguard beside her. "My apologies."
The Astartes looked down at her, his voice a respectful, vox-filtered rumble. "Congratulations, Consul-Palatina. You are worthy to be her voice."
A small, fragile warmth spread through her chest. But Garadon's next words shattered the fleeting moment of triumph. "There is still blood on his hands. This is not over."
"Wait," Jek pleaded, her mind racing. "Give me time. I will find the head of this serpent. I will find out who brought them here."
Garadon let out a short, humourless laugh. "Time, Consul? I hope, for all our sakes, that you are right."
As he and the Ultramarine departed, leaving her in the echoing silence, Jek knew with a chilling certainty that he was right. Time was a luxury she no longer had.