Part I - Night Thoughts
Hours after sunset, the Princess Aurelia, her mind a ceaseless current of cosmic thought, found herself unable to surrender to slumber. While her body, through the unique grace of her creation, seldom required true rest—and often found solace in the boundless expanse of the Basilica Liminalis, where she would contemplate grand strategies, observe the bickering C'tan fragments, or softly commune with the fragmented soul of her father—tonight was different. Tonight, her consciousness remained tethered to the now, refusing to yield to rest.
She opened her eyes, gazing at the intricate, gilded frescoes of her bedchamber's ceiling. A moment of aimless contemplation, a brief respite from the cosmic burdens, before she slowly rose. Drawing aside the heavy curtains of her bed, she revealed the stoic forms of her guardians. Knight-Centura Severina Morn of the Silent Sisterhood, stationed with an unyielding vigilance, turned her head slightly. Your Highness? Did sleep not find you tonight? She inquired through Thoughtmark, her presence a silent, calming null. Aurelia offered a faint, tired smile.
"It did not, Severina. Sleep remains elusive tonight." As she spoke, two Hestia Sisters, in their crisp, battle-ready robes, entered, bowing deeply. "Your Highness, do you require anything?"
"Tea, please," Aurelia replied softly, "and something light to eat—a simple broth or a clear soup. I will try to rest further, but I anticipate commencing my work within the hour, perhaps two." The Hestias bowed again, their movements imbued with a quiet efficiency, and withdrew.
Aurelia donned a simple, flowing robe and moved to the expansive balcony that offered a breathtaking, albeit grim, vista of Terra's eternal night. Her Golden Tower stood west of the immense Sanctum Imperialis, granting her a panoramic view of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, the Sanctum of the Thousand Eyes, the monumental Ascensor's Gate, the legendary Lion's Gate, and, most profoundly, the colossal form of the Imperial Palace itself, the resting place of her father. It was a place of isolation, yet simultaneously embraced by the very structures of Imperial power. In the solemnity of such nights, Aurelia often felt a profound melancholy, watching the world she had once known, the beacon of a nascent empire, now a mere husk of its former glory. Though not entirely lost, the pervasive ache of cosmic regret clung to her.
"Ra, are you there?" Aurelia whispered, her voice barely audible above the low hum of the Tower's machinery. Behind her, she heard the almost imperceptible whir of the Custodes Immortalis, their golden forms materialising from the shadows.
"Your Highness?" Ra Endymion's mechanical voice resonated, imbued with the deep, unwavering soul of the Custodian who should have perished ten millennia ago.
"I communed with Father before attempting rest. He appeared… remarkably serene. Peaceful." Aurelia's voice remained soft, knowing that Ra Endymion and the surrounding Custodes and Silent Sisters heard every word. They were acutely aware of her unique ability to communicate with the Emperor in a more profound, private manner. It had happened several times now, the Emperor speaking from his Golden Throne, most recently to Guilliman before the Indomitus Crusade's departure. A private communion, a father's and a son's final exchange.
Yet, Aurelia alone could truly reach the Emperor in the most secluded recesses of his being, where his efforts were less strained, where the articulation of his consciousness inflicted less agony.
"He was always thus, Your Highness," Ra Endymion replied, his voice a steady hum of ancient loyalty. "Serene. Peaceful. When his will was not burdened by leading crusades or desperately holding the Imperium from dissolution, he possessed a calm, a presence that many, myself included, found… quite charming."
"I swear, Ra, I can still hear the spectral groans of Tribune Abram Hasrubal at your words," Aurelia replied, a nonsensical, fond teasing in her voice. Ra Endymion's deadpan humour was, as ever, a constant source of quiet amusement. "We should awaken him, simply to witness his despairing wail from within his Dreadnought sarcophagus. But both of us know my father seldom, if ever, truly knew peace, and was not, for most of his rule, charming."
"Perhaps, Your Highness. But the prospect of his lamentations remains… tempting. Perhaps we should simply do so."
"The Captain-General Valoris would, I assure you, disapprove of your rousing a revered brother from slumber merely for the sake of your jest," Aurelia responded, a not-so-princess-like snort escaping her. "Besides, I harbour no doubt that Abram would, in his recovered fury, attempt to render you inoperable."
"Indeed. He would."
Aurelia chuckled softly, a poignant, human sound. She glanced once again at Terra's veiled sky, catching a fleeting glimpse of a small, determined star before the omnipresent smog reclaimed it. The colossal atmospheric purifiers she had commissioned had been toiling relentlessly, visibly cleansing pockets of the air. Yet, it was clear that decades, perhaps even centuries, would pass before Terra's sky returned to its pristine azure. Still, this fleeting vision of a clean star was a testament to subtle progress, a small, tangible display of hope.
"Did the Emperor communicate anything… further?" Ra Endymion inquired, making Aurelia tilt her head, her cosmic eyes distant.
"He spoke quite a lot, Ra," Aurelia confided, her voice hushed. "After millennia of shattered consciousness, of being held together only by duty and unyielding stubbornness, he now has a fragile window of respite. He has time to meditate, to reconnect with himself without profound agony, to simply be under the stabilising glow of my light. This precious lucidity offers him the opportunity to truly re-evaluate decisions, motivations, even his deepest feelings." She glanced at the immense, grim facade of the Sanctum Imperialis, where the Golden Throne held her father's entombed bones. She could feel the Astronomican's searing light, perceive its boundless reach, and, with her own subtle essence, continuously feed it, ensuring it burned brighter, stronger than ever.
Aurelia had already mandated the cessation of the horrendous sacrifice of a thousand psykers a day to fuel the Astronomican. When she had stitched her father's shattered soul and will back together, infusing his fragmented essence with her own primordial light, it had created a profound spiritual link. Her radiant aura, her encompassing power, now shielded Terra, Mars, and hundreds of vital systems across the Segmentum Solar from the cancerous touch of Chaos. This radiant bastion not only secured their core systems but also actively nourished her father's soul and simultaneously intensified the Astronomican's boundless light, strengthening its reach across the fractured galaxy. The painful trade-off, however, was her unyielding anchor to Terra. She was forbidden to leave, a decree enforced by a dedicated cohort of Grey Knights—not that she intended to depart, but the unspoken threat remained.
"He harbours regrets, Ra," Aurelia whispered, her voice imbued with a quiet pain that the ancient Custodian did not fail to notice. "Like any man burdened by such a long history. But he still possesses an unwavering belief. He thinks humanity still has a chance to survive. To thrive, even."
"It will not be easy, Ra," Aurelia added, leaning forward against the ornate balcony railing, her gaze fixed on the unseen horizon, the profound cost heavy on her spirit. "The sacrifices yet to come, the deaths yet to be endured… they are boundless."
"They will be, Your Highness," Ra Endymion responded, his voice unwavering. He comprehended the grim calculus: the Indomitus Crusade would demand billions of lives, sacrificed for the trillions they hoped to save. An immense, terrible cost to redeem an Imperium teetering on the brink. "But we have you."
"Me," Aurelia whispered, echoing his words, a faint, almost bewildered note in her voice. "What about my brother?"
"Lord Guilliman is not you, Your Highness. I do not mean to disrespect what he is capable of, his willingness to fight, or the vital role he may play in the Imperium during this dark age. However, he is not you. He would not be able to unite the Imperium as we need it to be—not merely as a symbol of resilience or a spirit to fight, but as a beacon of hope and a vision of what humanity could achieve. Roboute Guilliman lacks this ability, and I am certain he is aware of it."
Aurelia did not respond; instead, she reflected on Ra's words. Aurelia knew this, of course. She admitted that if she hadn't been by Guilliman's side, he would have faced numerous challenges, trials, and dangers, with enemies lurking behind him. Roboute Guilliman understood this as well; he knew that not everyone would be pleased with his return, nor would he have been able to unite the Imperium as effectively as she could. He was a Primarch, not the Heir.
"Do you truly believe that?" Aurelia asked.
"Yes, Your Highness. You are the one who can truly forge this new future. I have profound, unshakeable faith that you are more than what the Imperium needs right now; you are the Emperor's greatest triumph, the only one worthy of being called his heir."
Aurelia sighed deeply, her gaze once again lifting to the night sky, and a gentle smile touched her lips as a single, determined star momentarily pierced the heavy smog, a silent promise of dawn.
"Thank you, Ra. Your words… they mean a great deal to me." Aurelia offered him a warm, genuine smile. "And you too, Severina. My apologies for indulging in such emotion in your presence."
Knight-Centura Severina Morn silently shook her head, her Thoughtmark communication clear: No need to apologise, Your Highness. Never.
"Your Highness, your tea, and a hearty Grox brew, infused with herbs and vegetables," a Hestia Sister announced, her voice soft, as she presented a small, intricately carved tray.
"Ah, thank you," the Princess replied, her smile radiant. She moved to a small table arranged on the balcony, accepting the meal. She took a deep, fortifying sip of tea, allowing her mind to process the relentless march of the last year since her awakening. So much had been achieved, yet it rarely felt so. A year and a half, yet it felt like a decade, compressed by the cosmic perspective she possessed. Time had always been a strange, mercurial friend to her, constantly shifting its cadence, making her feel impossibly old, then unnervingly young, denying true rest or prolonging it agonisingly.
Aurelia had maintained her silent vigilance over the Golden Throne's hidden failings. Her presence and her ability to mend her father's shattered psyche had indeed brought him cohesion. But it had not, fundamentally, renewed the ancient machine itself. No. It was as if one had fitted a brand-new, powerful battery into a decaying, failing vehicle. The vehicle itself needed deep, meticulous repair or total replacement. And, of course, replacing the Golden Throne was a luxury beyond their wildest dreams.
They must repair it. Aurelia felt no true panic, no profound horror. She knew the Throne's deepest secrets. It had been built by the Old Ones, their ancient wisdom laid bare to her consciousness in the Basilica Liminalis, as she watched the past vividly. She knew its original purpose, its every component, its hidden functions, its every weakness. The Emperor, she realised, had possessed an understanding of the Throne's capabilities, not all its complex design, but enough to make it work and use it.
The Golden Throne, she knew, was a multi-faceted, arcane amalgamation, tweaked across countless millennia by various civilisations, from the Old Ones, to the Eldar, and most notably during the Dark Age of Technology by humanity, and then, profoundly, by her father's own brilliant tinkering. Now, it was a complex tapestry of overlapping, yet strangely harmonious, devices. Nevertheless, Aurelia understood the absolute imperative of repairing it, meticulously gathering all necessary resources and knowledge. And she knew how. The C'tan fragments, with their vast understanding of ancient physics and machinery, proved invaluable, particularly when she focused her perception on the precise period when the Old Ones had forged it initially and the humans in the Dark Age of Technology built more on top of it. Now, she had a door open to repairing significant parts of the Golden Throne. And adding her father's own modifications, though subtle, also offered crucial insights into the precise pathways for repairing other critical components.
The Webway portal beneath the Golden Throne still posed a problem. However, Aurelia knew a way to keep it permanently sealed. She just needed some time.
Nonetheless, while Aurelia maintained a disciplined calmness, those of the Imperium who knew of the Golden Throne's imminent failure were spiralling towards panic. She had learned, within hours of awakening from the Eden Pod, by watching the chapter of her awaking, of a perilous, almost blasphemous pact: certain elements of the Adeptus Mechanicus and High Lords of Terra, desperate to mend the Golden Throne, had entered into a perilous alliance with the insidious Aeldari of the Drukhari.
It was madness, sheer, unadulterated madness. Aurelia had glimpsed the inevitable chapter of that particular future: the Drukhari's insidious intent to construct their own twisted version of the Golden Throne, to forge their own psychic power source, their own false emperor, powered by human suffering, by her father's flesh and bones. This abhorrent "Black Throne" could not be allowed to exist. Not while Aurelia lived. She was compelled to intervene, not with mere words, but with overwhelming force.
Utilising the Basilica Liminalis, Aurelia materialised within the Webway, projecting her immaterial form before the terrified, stunned assembly of Tech-Priests and Drukhari Archons. Their reactions, she conceded now, were quite amusing—utter bewilderment and profound terror. But truly, they deserved no less. Aurelia had been enraged by the audacious temerity of Fabricator-General Oud Oudia Raskian, the previous Master of the Astronomican, and Speaker of the Chartist Captains Kania Dhanda. To have had the sheer gall to contemplate sacrificing an entire star system, billions of souls, for the mere possibility of fixing the Golden Throne—it was an abomination.
The Drukhari, despite their innate arrogance, recoiled in terror, yet still dared to inform her that without their intervention, the Golden Throne would fail within a century. Aurelia dismissed their pleas, her celestial eyes burning with righteous fury. She simply told them she would repair it herself, for she knew its every secret: how it was built, when, by whom, and its myriad functions. Their insidious "help" was not needed. She needed no help. Then, with a flicker of wrath that was perhaps a touch irresponsible, Aurelia unleashed a sliver of her power, utterly obliterating the nascent Black Throne and, with a silent tear in reality, a portion of Commorragh itself. This unleashed a brief, furious skirmish within the Webway, in which one of her personal Lionguard, Leops Franck, tragically perished.
Oddly enough, one of the more pragmatic Drukhari Archons, witnessing the cataclysmic display of power, immediately ordered the cessation of hostilities. They understood, with a chilling clarity, that Aurelia was not merely a formidable foe; she was a being they could not possibly harm, much less defeat. This was the Anathema of the Warp, a primordial entity capable of annihilating even She-Who-Thirsts or any of the Chaos Gods themselves. To fight her in the Webway, in her astral form, was utter, galactic suicide.
Aurelia's gaze, now sharp with righteous anger, bore down upon the remaining Drukhari. She issued a cold, unequivocal warning: this was to be their last attempt to deceive her people, her Imperium. Next time, she vowed, she would personally send all of Commorragh directly to the ravenous maw of Slaanesh. Aurelia was, of course, bluffing; she was not so cruel and was quite unsure of how to truly appreciate her vast power without destroying an entire section of the Webway. But the terrifying fury in her voice, the palpable intensity of her threat, made them believe every word.
The Drukhari, shrewd and ancient, felt her. A being whose presence made the very Webway tremble. Their psychic senses screamed at them to cease. Aurelia then allowed them to retreat, taking with her the human participants—Oud Oudia Raskian, Erasmus Crowl, Luce Spinoza, Kania Dhanda, and Custodes Navradaran. She guided the bewildered humans to a safe point near Luna. To Fabricator-General Oud Oudia Raskian, she issued a direct command: return to Mars, and remain there until she summoned him. He made no reply, utterly shaken by the sheer magnitude of power he had witnessed.
To the others—Crowl, Spinoza, Dhanda, and the Custodes Navradaran—she commanded them to return to Terra. There would be desperate days ahead, and they would be needed. Navradaran, profoundly stunned, found his voice long enough to whisper. Aurelia spoke to him, informing him of her awakening and of the Emperor's return to lucidity, and instructed him to await Guilliman's orders. Then, having secured their safe return, Aurelia retreated, her immaterial form returning to the solitude of the Basilica Liminalis. She had been reckless, perhaps, with the display of her power in the Webway, and could have easily obliterated them all. Yet, thankfully, all had ultimately gone as planned, and the chapter was closed, having diverged from a potentially disastrous path.
"No one can accuse me of not working hard," Aurelia mumbled, a faint, weary satisfaction in her voice as she took a slow sip of her Grox brew.
"You are conversing with yourself again, Your Highness," Ra Endymion observed, his ancient, metallic voice carrying a note of dry amusement.
"Hush, Ra. Allow your Princess the small indulgence of speaking to herself," Aurelia replied, a faint smile playing on her lips as she returned to her simple meal, her mind already consumed by a new idea—a way to use her power in small, controlled, and precise bursts.
Part II – The Architect's Mandate: Repairing the Golden Throne
The vast, intricate repairs of the Golden Throne had consumed Aurelia's attention in the days following the purge of the Senatorum's Hexarchy. Her task was segmented, methodical, moving from the most critical, immediate fixes to grander, epoch-spanning reconstructions. First, the crucial, failing components required immediate and delicate intervention. Second, extant parts capable of enhancement needed meticulous upgrading. Third, the profound, ancient architecture of the Throne itself had to be rebuilt, reshaped to better channel her essence—that boundless, life-giving power—more efficiently into the Astronomican and the Throne's dying mechanisms. Fourth, and finally, she would begin the arduous process of repairing the layers of human additions from the Dark Age of Technology, then her father's intricate modifications across the millennia.
Only then, with the Throne restored to its pristine glory, might Aurelia find a way to permanently seal the breach in the Webway beneath its foundations. This final act, however, would require not only a fully functional Throne but also her father's conscious, concentrated will to focus its immense power. Both Aurelia and the Emperor had implicitly agreed: for such a momentous task, the Throne must operate without flaw.
This intricate task necessitated a precise, delicate negotiation with the Fabricator-General of Mars himself, Oud Oudia Raskian. Their meeting was not held in the intimate confines of the Golden Tower, but in the heart of Terra's bureaucratic labyrinth, the austere grandeur of the Sanctum Imperialis. Here, beneath the colossal, shattered form of her father upon the Golden Throne, and flanked by his unyielding Custodes, Aurelia awaited Raskian's arrival.
"Your Highness," Captain-General Trajann Valoris's voice, a low, steady rumble, spoke, his auramite-clad form bowing in a gesture of profound respect and unwavering loyalty. "Fabricator-General Oud Oudia Raskian is now approaching."
"Thank you, Captain-General," Aurelia replied, her gaze remaining fixed on the spectral bones of her father, her celestial eyes holding a vast, sorrowful depth.
"It is true then," Trajann ventured, his voice carefully controlled, yet Aurelia sensed a deep undercurrent of anxiety within him. "The Golden Throne can be repaired?"
"Yes, it can," Aurelia affirmed, her voice resonating with a quiet, absolute certainty. "The inherent problem lay not in the possibility of repair, but in the absence of the correct tools, the necessary components. But as of this moment, I am actively creating those missing pieces, with the invaluable assistance of my associates, ensuring every requirement is meticulously prepared." Trajann's jaw, tight with years of suppressed worry, relaxed visibly. "The total restoration of the Golden Throne will indeed demand years, perhaps decades, of continuous labour, but it shall be done. We are, I assure you, precisely on schedule."
Soon, both Trajann and the Princess heard the distinctive sounds of extensive cybernetic augmentation—the rhythmic hiss of pneumatics, the whir of internal mechanisms, the heavy, deliberate tread of colossal metallic limbs—slowly approaching. Oud Oudia Raskian, the Fabricator-General, was an even more physically imposing figure than Belisarius Cawl. Where Cawl's form, in Aurelia's opinion, was already an exercise in flamboyant excess, Raskian's vast, augmented body seemed to defy all laws of biomechanics. He could barely move without creating a scraping, dragging sound, as if burdened by his own immensity. Thankfully, the Golden Throne chamber was a cavernous space, vast enough to accommodate even his colossal form.
"Your Highness," Raskian bowed, or attempted to, his rigid, augmented body permitting little beyond a stiff, mechanical inclination of his massive frame.
"Fabricator-General, thank you for your prompt arrival," Aurelia greeted, her voice calm and serene. "And I apologise for the… unpleasant circumstances of our first meeting. As you may understand, my anger was, shall we say, profoundly justified by the revelations of that occasion." She projected an aura of serene authority, yet an underlying thread of steely irritation at the past circumstances lingered, a subtle resonance in her light. Raskian, she knew, had been genuinely ignorant of the catastrophic ramifications of his proposed alliance; the sheer, unimaginable horror that awaited humanity had his plan come to fruition.
Yet, she understood his desperation. Even her father, when Aurelia recounted the details of Raskian's ill-fated alliance, had conceded to the Fabricator-General's profound desperation.
Raskian bowed again, this time a deeper, more contorted attempt, clearly striving to avoid her penetrating gaze, as well as the unwavering, silent glare of Trajann Valoris.
"My sincerest apologies, Your Highness," Raskian stated, his multi-layered vox-speakers chiming with unusual sincerity. "I allowed… fear and desperation to wholly consume my logical mind." He sounded honest enough now, after a year, to perceive the larger picture, the immense, unimaginable stakes at play, and the full, horrifying extent of what they all stood to lose. And even if his alliance with the Drukhari had proceeded, there was, he now realised, no guarantee that the Golden Throne would have been permanently, truly repaired.
"You need not worry yourself, Fabricator-General. I understand. We understand," Aurelia said, a subtle emphasis on the collective pronoun. Raskian looked up, his multi-faceted optical sensors whirring in confusion. Was she referring to the Captain-General of the Custodes? No, he immediately realised, for just then, a deep, ancient voice, a voice he had not truly heard in ten millennia, resonated from high upon the Golden Throne itself. It was the Emperor.
"Fabricator-General," the Emperor spoke, his words imbued with a vast, timeless power. His entombed bones seemed to pulse with a faint, tranquil aura, an almost palpable echo of his former glory.
Raskian gasped, a collective intake of breath from his many augmented components, his multi-layered voices spewing rapid binary numbers and frightened exclamations. "So, it is true," he whispered, awe and terror battling for supremacy within his logic circuits.
"I have been made aware of your dealings with the Drukhari, Fabricator-General. Your proposition of sacrificing an entire star system to their predatory whims. You should know, were these not the gravest of circumstances, your life would have been forfeit. Your actions would have been considered treason of the highest order," the Emperor spoke, that ancient voice, long muted by suffering, now recalling how to articulate its formidable anger. Aurelia felt no surprise, of course. Her father, when she had initially apprised him of the incident, had been utterly furious. To contemplate giving away billions of human lives, sacrificing an entire portion of the Imperium to the Dark Eldar, and for a prospect that offered no true guarantee of success, was, in his eyes, an act of unforgivable foolishness. Yet, he had possessed the lucidity, guided by Aurelia's calm counsel, to temper his wrath, to understand the desperation that had driven Raskian.
The Emperor, of course, had always known the Golden Throne's operational lifespan was finite, that without drastic measures, its heart would fail. But to place trust in xenos, specifically the perfidious Dark Eldar, was an act of profound naivety and strategic idiocy.
"My Emperor, I assure you, I exhaustively explored all available alternatives before resorting to such a… desperate decision," Raskian stammered, his multi-layered voice struggling to articulate, his multitude of augmetic limbs trembling. It was not surprising; the Emperor's colossal psychic aura, his sheer, undeniable presence, even as a fragmented will, was utterly suffocating to those upon whom his attention rested.
"Your actions are, on a purely logical level, understandable, Fabricator-General, given the dire circumstances you perceived," the Emperor spoke, a surprising lack of explicit judgment in his tone. Aurelia understood that the ancient Treaty of Mars granted the Mechanicus a certain autonomy, insulating Raskian from outright Imperial judgment. Yet, the Emperor, Aurelia knew, saw deeper truths than any, privy to knowledge of Mars, its secrets, and perhaps even his own hand in the genesis of its unique cult, millennia ago. Aurelia believed Raskian possessed deeper, forbidden knowledge of what lay beneath the Noctis Labyrinth, perhaps even a truer understanding of Mars' hidden history. Raskian's submissive posture, however, confirmed that he was aware of the full, horrifying scope of the C'tan shard dormant within Mars and the Emperor's ancient role in its concealment.
"I assure you, I would have pursued any other solution had I possessed the luxury of time, but given what little intelligence we possessed… time was simply not on our side. I felt compelled to act," Raskian replied, his voice muted. The Emperor's voice was silent for a few moments, yet his immense, unseen presence remained palpable in the chamber.
"I comprehend the tyranny of acting against time, Fabricator-General. The Golden Throne is indeed failing. Its structure possesses an inherent expiration date. You undertook what you believed was the sole path to achieve the impossible. Even if that path involved condemning billions, it is not an easy decision. But one, that I now hope you recognise, would have resulted in an outcome far more catastrophic. The Drukhari, Fabricator-General, saw your desperation. And they would have seized it, and ultimately, they would have condemned humanity to a slow, exquisite damnation."
Raskian bowed, his massive form trembling. He was not a fool; he had swiftly, albeit belatedly, realised the full, perfidious intent of the Dark Eldar. He grasped, perhaps too late, that the Drukhari's true goal was to put humanity on a leash, to save themselves through mankind's ultimate subjugation.
"I was gravely mistaken," Raskian replied, his voice strained. "Wrong in all my assumptions, and I almost condemned billions of souls to unimaginable horror."
"Few possess such foresight, Fabricator-General, and fewer still would dare to make such a decision. It is indeed fortunate that particular decision never came to pass," the Emperor stated, his voice now devoid of harshness, imbued with a simple, stark fact. "Nevertheless, you have been summoned here because your unique knowledge is vital. Because you are needed."
"Could it be…" Raskian turned his gaze to the Princess, who already knew the nascent thought forming in his mechanical mind. Aurelia then produced a data-slate, its surface shimmering with the intricate schematics of a new, meticulously crafted device. Raskian's multi-faceted bionic eyes widened in profound awe. One of his numerous extremities, driven by pure instinct, reached for the data-slate, his optical sensors devouring the complex details.
"I stated, Fabricator-General, that I possessed the knowledge to repair the Golden Throne, and I meant it. What I require now are capable hands, unwavering dedication, and infinite patience," Aurelia stated.
"Patience… how much time is truly left?" Raskian asked, a desperate edge to his voice.
"Enough to ensure its triumph," the Emperor replied, his voice resonating with unyielding certainty.
Raskian bowed deeply, not only to the distant Emperor but to the Princess, his respect for her formidable intellect absolute. "We should commence immediately, Your Highness."
Soon after, the Princess guided the Fabricator-General towards her personal laboratory within the Golden Tower. As they walked, Aurelia posed a simple yet profound question.
"Fabricator-General, do you truly know what lies dormant beneath the surface of Mars?" she asked him, her celestial eyes piercing.
Raskian stopped, and for a few long seconds, he seemed to enter a deep meditative state, his augmetics falling silent. "Only enough to foster… considerable worry, Your Highness," the Fabricator-General finally replied, his voice a low, hesitant drone. "The information regarding it is deeply forbidden, highly classified, and fragmented. But what little I comprehend suggests a danger… immense and perhaps catastrophic. Yet, it also possesses a profound scientific fascination."
"Spoken like a true Magos, indeed," Aurelia replied, a faint smile touching her lips, earning a rare, metallic chuckle from the Fabricator-General. "Then, you are aware that a select few possess more precise knowledge of the C'tan shards. Belisarius Cawl, I believe, knows far more about it than most of his… peers."
"Cawl's relentless pursuit of forbidden knowledge, his unique capacity for blundering into monumental problems, is precisely what makes him so infuriatingly dangerous, and so… annoying," Raskian drawled, a distinct note of professional resentment in his voice.
"But you must concede, Fabricator-General, that without him, much would remain utterly stagnant. He is undeniably necessary. And while he is my dear friend, I readily admit, he can be… arrogant."
"I would have employed a more… descriptive term," Raskian stated dryly, which earned him a surprisingly loud, clear chuckle from the Princess.
"No doubt," she affirmed.
"Your Highness, why do you inquire about these… forbidden matters?" Raskian asked, his curiosity overriding his caution.
"Among the countless enemies arrayed against the Imperium, Fabricator-General, the Necrons represent one of the most formidable threats. The Mechanicus has, for too long, maintained a disconcerting silence regarding their true capabilities. I informed my brother, before his departure, that the Necrons are an enemy we, in our current state, cannot hope to defeat. Our technology, even with all the recent advancements we are developing, lags far behind. It would take decades, perhaps centuries, to achieve a level where we could truly defend ourselves, not even win, merely protect ourselves. We need more," Aurelia replied, stopping and turning to face Raskian, her gaze unwavering. "And, perhaps even more critically, we require allies who harbour a hatred for the Necrons sufficiently profound to grant us the crucial time we desperately need."
Raskian tilted his immense head, his bionic eyes scanning the three glowing green motes woven into Aurelia's dark, celestial hair. He frowned, noting that the motes pulsed faintly, rhythmically.
"I have heard him speak… well, he does not truly communicate. The ancient slumber the Void Dragon finds itself in is a cacophony of internal noise," Aurelia confessed, her voice hushed, the green lights on her hair blinking on their own. "But I can indeed sense his presence, deep beneath Mars. He is a profoundly dangerous, unimaginably powerful entity, and I would, in truth, prefer to keep him in undisturbed slumber. However, it is paramount that you know of Mars's underlying vulnerability. For your own strategic awareness."
Raskian looked deeply troubled. This was sensitive information, usually reserved only for the Fabricator-General and the heads of the Martian Cult Mechanicus. Mars's greatest secret. And it's the most profound threat.
"There is precious little we truly know about it, Your Highness. What fragmented information we do possess suggests… it is beyond comprehension," Raskian began hesitantly.
"It is sensitive, I understand. That is precisely why I am confiding in you directly, in this place, where no unsanctioned ear would ever betray our discourse," the Princess said, her words steady, reassuring. They continued walking, and soon, they arrived at her vast, rapidly expanding laboratory, a place of immense technological dynamism.
"Welcome to my laboratory, Fabricator-General. Though" Aurelia chuckled softly, "many here have taken to calling it the 'Silent Furnace' now, a tribute, I believe, to Archmagos Cawl's persistent sense of humour. But I confess, this place has accumulated many names over the millennia." Aurelia turned to Raskian, offering a warm, inviting smile.
"Your Highness, what further knowledge do you possess regarding the Golden Throne?" Raskian asked, his eyes gleaming with profound intrigue.
"What, Fabricator-General, would you like to know?" Aurelia countered, a subtle challenge in her tone.
"Enough to facilitate its complete and permanent repair, and to ensure it never again falters, threatening the very heart of humanity."
Aurelia perceived Raskian's profound dedication, his undeniable capacity to become a vital, loyal ally. His survival from the Webway incident and his unique knowledge of the Throne's dire condition had been strategically preserved. Had he perished, the critical information of the Golden Throne's fundamental failings would have been catastrophically restricted. And the few on Mars who understood its true vulnerability might well have prepared to establish their own, desperate techno-theocracy when the Throne finally died. Such an outcome would have plunged the Imperium into unrecoverable chaos. This, Aurelia knew, was why perpetual, calculated awareness of every step was paramount. Yet, she would not blindly trust foresight alone. It was her turn now to secure Raskian's unwavering loyalty to the Imperium and to her. And she knew how.
"I shall tell you everything, my friend. But first, I need to complete a small project of my own."
"Oh? And what project might that be, Your Highness?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.
"My own throne."