Part I - The Praetorian
Rogal Dorn beheld the scene of utter chaos unfolding around him, his ears ringing with the guttural shouts of command that echoed across the claustrophobic battlefield of the Sword of Sacrilege's cramped corridors. He knew, with the chilling clarity of a master tactician, that he had erred. The decision to board the Despoiler-class battleship, a floating fortress of heresy and madness, had been a mistake. He wasn't a fool; the realisation had struck him the moment his teleport strike force materialised within the vessel's corrupted heart. They were vastly outnumbered, surrounded, and this manoeuvre was, in its essence, a final, desperate lunge for the enemy's throat.
The Dorn of the Great Crusade—the stoic Praetorian of Terra, the First Lord Commander who had fortified the Throneworld against the tides of treachery—would never have sanctioned such a reckless assault. That Dorn demanded exhaustive intelligence, meticulous planning, and overwhelming superiority. But this… this was the bitter, scarred remnant of a demi-god, a soul hollowed out by the unspeakable aftermath of the Heresy. This was the Rogal Dorn who had witnessed his angelic brother, Sanguinius, broken upon the Vengeful Spirit; who had carried his father's shattered husk to the Golden Throne, knowing he was entombing a god to a half-life of agony; who had watched his beloved sister, the golden hope of the Imperium, sealed within the Eden Stasis Pod, her fate uncertain.
This Dorn fought not for glory or expansion, but for sheer, desperate survival. Every battle was a grinding war of attrition, a frantic effort to keep the Imperium from being cannibalised by the ravenous dark. He saw no other way to halt the Black Crusade's relentless advance but this—a boarding action born of rage, grief, and unyielding stubbornness.
I cannot fail. I refuse to fail. The thought was a mantra, a steel beam reinforcing Dorn's mind as he gripped Storm's Teeth, his colossal chainsword, in one hand, and The Voice of Terra, his master-crafted bolter, in the other.
"Do not let them surround us! Fight! Fight!" Dorn roared, his voice cutting through the din. Storm's Teeth screamed, its adamantium teeth tearing through the twisted flesh of a Khornate cultist, spraying hot blood across the bulkheads. But for every cultist felled, two more surged forward, their frenzied rage fueled by the Blood God. And behind them, the hulking, black-armoured forms of the traitor Astartes, the Black Legion, advanced with disciplined malice. The Imperial Fists, stalwart and brave, were being pushed back, inch by bloody inch.
"Hold the line, sons of Terra! Hold the line, my sons!" Dorn bellowed, raising his bolter and obliterating the head of a charging Black Legionnaire. Yet, even his Primarch's fury was not enough.
The Imperial Fists moved as a single organism, locking their storm shields into an impenetrable wall, their bolters barking a staccato rhythm of death. A cultist, maddened by bloodlust, threw himself against a shield, clawing uselessly at the ceramite, only to be blown apart by a point-blank bolter round. But the distraction served its purpose; a Black Legionnaire capitalised on the opening, his bolter round punching through the Imperial Fist's gorget, exploding within his chest. The Astartes fell, instantly replaced by a brother. Still, the loss was felt—another son gone, another gap in the line, ammunition dwindling with every heartbeat.
An hour of relentless slaughter saw their numbers dwindle from three hundred to one hundred, then to a few dozen desperate souls.
Panic, cold and unfamiliar, brushed against Dorn's mind. He considered ordering a retreat, but escape was impossible. They were trapped, encircled in the belly of the beast. He had let desperation cloud his judgment, a failing he had never permitted himself before, and now, the cost was total.
"So be it! Let this be our last stand!" Dorn declared, his voice filled with grim finality. His remaining sons, their bolters clicking empty, drew combat blades and chainswords, prepared to die alongside their father.
But this was no glorious last stand, no legendary defence against an insurmountable foe that would echo through the ages. It was a butchery. Their objective had failed. The Black Legion remained; the Despoiler lived; the Black Crusade marched on. They were simply being exterminated, one by one, in the dark, forgotten corridors of a traitor ship.
No songs would be sung of this end. There would be no witnesses to carry the tale.
Dorn fought with the savagery of a cornered beast. When The Voice of Terra ran dry, he wielded it as a bludgeon. When Storm's Teeth finally choked on gore and failed, he used his bare hands, ripping cultists limb from limb, snapping the spines of traitor Astartes who dared to think they could fell a Primarch. He would leave a scar on their collective memory, a testament to his defiance.
But he was alone now, his sons dead at his feet. The enemy swarmed him like vermin. A piercing pain erupted in his side—a poisoned dagger found a chink in his armour. Then another, and another. He was being engulfed by a tide of stabbing, biting madness. Yet, the physical agony was nothing compared to the singular, terrifying thought that seized his mind.
No. I cannot die! I refuse!
His thoughts flew to Terra, to his sacred duty. Who will protect the Wall? Who will raise the new fortifications when the old ones crumble? Who will be there when Aurelia wakes? Who will shield the Imperium in my stead?
I cannot… I refuse to die!
Dorn screamed, a sound of pure, unadulterated rage, holding onto his consciousness even as his body was torn apart by the triumphant cultists. He did not fear death; he feared the dereliction of duty.
Darkness took him. A cold, absolute nothingness embraced him. Silence. It was comfortable, seductive in its peace. He could stay here, in this numbness, let the pain fade, drift into the oblivion he had perhaps earned. Finally, a place where he did not need to fight.
But peace was not a concept Rogal Dorn understood. Nothingness was anathema to his soul.
He needed to work. He could not rest where there were no tools, no walls to build, no duty to fulfil.
Brother...
The whisper cut through the void, an echo from a distance that was not physical. He felt it—a crossroads in the dark. One path led to eternal silence. The other led back to the grindstone.
My dear Dorn. My Praetorian. My Wall.
The voice grew stronger, warmer. Dorn knew that voice. It was his sister calling him home. Dorn needed no further prompting. He made his choice instantly. His legendary stubbornness, his absolute refusal to leave a task unfinished, galvanised his spirit. He mentally clenched his being, refusing to drift, stubbornly standing his ground against the pull of death.
I hear you, sister. I am coming.
The sensation of return was violent. Dorn's lungs, dormant for an eternity, expanded with a harsh, gasping breath. Sensation flooded back—the weight of his limbs, the ache in his bones, the cold air on his skin. It took a few disorienting seconds for reality to solidify.
"Brother... you are here."
Dorn's eyes snapped open. He was not in the Golden Throne room, nor on a battlefield. He lay in a dimly lit, subterranean space, a place of shadows and industry. It smelled of ozone, oil, and arcane experiments—metal, machine, and biology intermingled. A laboratory. A forge.
He looked up, and through the haze of resurrection, he saw her.
"Aurelia," Dorn muttered, his voice rough, gravelly, as if his throat were remembering how to shape words after an age of silence. "Sister."
Her arms were around him instantly, hugging his massive frame with a desperate strength that made her look like a child embracing a statue.
Dorn returned the embrace, his large hand resting gently on her back, taking a moment to fully comprehend the impossibility of his existence. He was no longer dead.
"How… how long?" Dorn managed to ask, pulling back slightly to look at her. He saw the profound weariness etched into her features, the sadness in her celestial eyes, but also an overwhelming relief.
"It has been a long time, brother," Aurelia whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "A very long time. But we have time now. We have time to talk about it all."
Part II – The Unwilling God and the Stone Heart
Rogal Dorn sat draped in the rough-spun, simple robes of his homeworld, Inwit, a stark contrast to the opulence of the Golden Tower and the technological marvels of the Silent Furnace. Hours had passed since his rebirth, and he had spent them absorbing a concentrated history of ten millennia. It was a baptism of fire, a relentless catalogue of decay, betrayal, and slow, agonising ruin. The reality was worse than his darkest nightmares. They had made a mockery of his father. A god. The very concept was anathema to the Imperial Truth they had bled oceans to forge. They had twisted the Emperor's vision into a grotesque idol, a golden calf built on ignorance and fear.
Dorn's colossal fist tightened, the knuckles turning white. The Ecclesiarchy. The Imperial Creed. The utter, pervasive madness of M42. If he had been alive, if he had stood sentinel through these dark ages, he would have purged the Ecclesiarchy root and branch before it ever took hold. He would have razed the temples erected in his father's name, leaving not one stone upon another. He would have made Lorgar's censure at Monarchia look like a gentle reprimand compared to the righteous fury he would have unleashed upon those who dared pervert the Emperor's dream.
But it was too late. Far, far too late. The Ecclesiarchy's roots were tangled deep within the bedrock of the Imperium, inseparable from its survival. The last ten millennia had mutated the Imperium into a horrendous, twisted shadow of its potential, and the bitterest irony was that he was now here to witness it. A cold fury burned in his chest—fury at himself for dying, for failing to hold the line against time itself; fury at the Imperium, at its people, for squandering the sacrifices of billions.
All that blood. All those oaths. The walls I built with my own hands, the sons I sent to their deaths. Decades of war, of relentless expansion, of fighting until my very soul was ash. For… this? For this rotting carcass of an empire? Is this my reward? Is this what we saved?
He wanted to scream, to rage, to smash the delicate machinery around him until his hands bled. That would be Angron's way. Or perhaps Russ's. But he was Rogal Dorn. He was stone. He remained stoic, his face a mask of unyielding granite, though the pressure behind his eyes threatened to crack the façade.
Then he felt it. His sister's small, warm hand covers his colossal fist. A gentle, grounding touch. Slowly, painfully, Dorn drew a deep breath and exhaled, forcing his hand to relax. Aurelia smiled softly, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.
"You always make that face when you are truly angry," she said, her voice a soothing balm. "The same expression you wore every time Leman decided to snore through your strategic briefings. Though, admittedly, with slightly less… volatility."
Dorn allowed the memory to surface. A flicker of something that might have been a smirk threatened the corner of his mouth, but he suppressed it. He remained outwardly impassive, but internally, the storm began to abate. In her presence, the chaos receded. It was unbecoming for a Primarch to lose control like a petulant child.
"Everything has changed," Dorn said finally, his voice a low, gravelly rumble laden with bitterness. "The Imperium we knew is gone. The dream we fought for… forgotten. Now, these ruins, this corpse-empire, are held together by nothing more than ignorance, zealotry, and stagnation."
"It is," Aurelia replied, offering no platitudes, no denials. "Nothing is as we remember. Our father is a symbol of a religion that should never have been born. Your name, my name… we are figures of myth, almost religious icons."
Dorn scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound. "Lorgar's work. That damned Lectitio Divinatus. I knew destroying that book should have been a priority. Even Malcador knew it. I wager he is laughing in the afterlife right now."
"We cannot change what the Imperium believes now, brother. The roots are too deep. Trillions upon trillions pray to Father's form daily. I have looked down the paths of many potential futures. None that involve shattering their faith end with victory. The best course, the only course, is to let them believe," Aurelia said, her voice heavy with fatigue.
Dorn's jaw tightened. "To continue the charade? To condone this… lie?"
"We have no other choice," Aurelia sighed. "Besides, the Immaterium is so volatile now that this belief, this immense psychic focus on Father, has… consequences. It has birthed 'miracles'. I must admit, I share some fault in that."
"What do you mean?" Dorn asked, his brow furrowing.
"Over the millennia, the cult of our father—and of me—grew so large that it began to feed the Immaterium. It allowed Father, even in his shattered state, to unconsciously hear them and act. The Adepta Sororitas, the Living Saints… their faith is so profound it shapes reality. It creates a reaction."
Dorn processed this slowly. "So, you are saying they have effectively made him a God, simply by praying to him for ten thousand years?"
Aurelia hummed, searching for the right words. Explaining the fluid, emotional mechanics of the Warp was always a challenge. "Yes, and no. It is… complicated. Emotions, faith, focused intent—all directed at Father—create a resonance in the Warp. You could say that the collective psychic weight of humanity has empowered him, allowing for these 'miracles'. We could discuss the metaphysics for hours, but the tactical reality is this: we cannot stop it. The only thing we can do is use it."
"Use it," Dorn repeated, tasting the pragmatism of the phrase. It was bitter, but familiar.
Aurelia took his hand in both of hers. She knew how hard this was for him. Of all her brothers, Dorn was the most steadfast believer in the Imperial Truth, the most committed to the Emperor's secular vision. For him to witness this descent into superstition was a profound insult to everything he held dear.
"Things are not what they used to be, brother. They never will be again. But as long as we are here, there is hope," Aurelia said, her celestial eyes locking onto his. "Your soul returned because it refused to leave. Because it refused to fail in its duty. Because the Praetorian still needs to hold the wall. And right now, the Imperium is desperate for its Praetorian. It requires your logic. It requires your legendary stubbornness. It requires your cold, unyielding calculation."
Dorn felt the strength in her small hands. "I need you, brother," Aurelia said simply. She didn't order. She didn't beg. She just stated a fact. "I need someone who can help me fix the Imperium."
Dorn looked past her, out the window, where a patch of blue sky, cleared by her atmospheric engines, shone through the smog. His sister had been moving mountains to push back the stagnation. How could he refuse her? How could he stop? No. Dorn was too proud, too driven by duty. His work wasn't done. He had once told his sons: There is no enemy. The foe on the battlefield is merelyt the manifestation of that which we must overcome. And now, the struggle was all that remained.
There was no enemy but doubt, fear, and despair. And Rogal Dorn would not allow the Imperium to fall to them. They would have to drag him screaming into the Sea of Souls before he let the Imperium of Man collapse. They would have to destroy his very soul before he surrendered.
Dorn looked back at his sister and gently squeezed her hand. The stone heart within him began to beat with renewed purpose.
"Where is my armour, sister?" he asked, his voice steady, resolute. "I cannot waste any more time. There is a great deal of work to be done."
Rogal Dorn's gaze fell upon his panoply of war, and for the first time in what felt like aeons, a sense of completion began to displace the lingering void within him. The Auric Armour, that magnificent shell of burnished copper and gold, draped in the blood-red velvet coat of the Praetorian's station, had always been more than mere protection; it was an extension of his will, a physical manifestation of his unyielding duty to Terra. The unfurled eagle-wing motif, etched into the very essence of the gear, declared his guardianship to all who beheld it.
Now, deep within the thrumming heart of Aurelia's secret foundries, he saw that she had honoured that legacy. She understood the sanctity of the architecture he had so meticulously refined. The armour before him was familiar, comforting in its lines, yet profoundly evolved. The core was the same distinctive auri-adamantium alloy, gleaming with the golden light Dorn favoured, but beneath that familiar sheen lay a foundation of Noverrium. This substance, birthed from his sister's genius, surpassed even the holy trinity of adamantium, ceramite, and auramite in sheer defensive capability. More than that, it possessed a latent sentience, a regenerative property that promised to knit the armour back together even as battle sought to tear it asunder. A true masterpiece of engineering, worthy of the Praetorian.
Dorn's analytical mind dissected the upgrades. The life support systems had been radically overhauled, now incorporating reservoirs of a unique bio-foam capable of instantly sealing catastrophic wounds while accelerating the healing of minor lacerations. The communications suite was a fortress unto itself, robust enough to punch through the wildest warp storms or the psychic shrieks of a thousand witches, ensuring his command would never be silenced.
The Teleport Homer, a critical tool in his arsenal, had been refined to a level that bordered on the arcane. It was no longer just a navigational beacon but a conduit, imbued with Aurelia's own essence. It promised pinpoint teleportation across distances that would have been suicide before, piercing the veil of the Immaterium with unerring precision. No interference, no blockage could sever his path. He would never again be caged by despair or distance.
He noted the dedicated mag-locks for his beloved fragmentation grenades, three standard plus additional mountings for newer, more potent ordnance she had undoubtedly devised. She knew his preference for the brutal simplicity of explosives in a siege.
His primary weapons had also been reborn. Storm's Teeth was lost, a casualty of his final, desperate stand, perhaps adorning the trophy rack of some unworthy traitor champion. Dornsblade, the Sword of Sebastus, rested in the reverent care of the Excoriators Space Marine Chapter, and he would not reclaim it. In their stead lay a new chainsword, a brutal masterpiece forged from graded Noverrium and Auramite, its teeth gleaming with a golden hunger. Like Guilliman's blade, The Emperor's Sword, it held a singular, precious core: a single strand of Aurelia's hair woven into the hilt. It was not merely a weapon to erase daemons from existence, though it would do so with terrifying efficiency; it was a shield against the Warp's corruption, a tangible link to the light that held the galaxy together.
And finally, his sidearm. The Voice of Terra was gone, lost to the annals of war. But here lay its successor. It was no simple bolter. Aurelia had resurrected schematics from the deepest vaults of the Dark Age, crafting a unique tactical bolt-action weapon. It was a compact railgun pistol, firing micro-automatic ammunition with devastating force. Linked directly to his bio-signature, it was a weapon no other could wield, a tool of precision destruction fit only for a Primarch.
She had left them unnamed. That right, she silently communicated, belonged to him.
It took the Magos a long time to fully don his armour, and when Dorn was finally clad in his armour, he appeared content.
"You look handsome, brother," Aurelia said, a warm smile gracing her lips as she watched him inspect the wargear.
Dorn turned to her, his face impassive, his mind already calculating loadouts and logistical requirements. "It requires additional hardpoints for modular armament integration, sister," he stated flatly. "I must be able to adapt the defensive configuration."
Aurelia rolled her eyes, a gesture of profound, sisterly exasperation. "I ensured the design was streamlined, brother. As you can clearly see," she pointed to the pauldrons and the spacious interlocking plates on his back and legs, "there is ample capacity for you to attach your… little toys."
Dorn's brow furrowed slightly. "I do not craft 'little toys,' sister," he replied, a note of mild offence in his deep voice. "I engineer necessary strategic implementations."
"And so do I, brother. And yet, I recall a certain detailed scale model of the Phalanx you crafted for me as a child, complete with functioning lumen-strips," Aurelia countered, a triumphant, smug grin spreading across her face.
Dorn sighed, a deep, resonant sound of defeat. He reached out, his massive hand gently patting her head, a gesture he had used when she was small enough to ride on his shoulder. Aurelia smiled, leaning into the touch, savouring the connection.
"I am so happy you are back," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Dorn, rarely one for overt displays of emotion, let his hand linger for a moment longer. "You have done well, sister. Exceptionally well. If there is any soul capable of dragging humanity from this abyss, it is you."
"I am not alone in this journey," Aurelia replied.
"No. You are not. But you are the catalyst. The only one truly capable of uniting us under a single banner: Hope. It was something our brothers or I could not wield without faltering. Yet, after everything, you still hope." He looked down at her, seeing both the child he had protected and the leader she had become. The Imperium needed her light now more than ever.
"Focus on the Imperium, sister. I shall be your Wall."
Aurelia looked up at him, her eyes shining. "Will you speak with Guilliman? And Father?"
Dorn's expression grew pensive. "I shall speak with Father. If time permits. There are questions that have grown in my silence. Secrets he kept from us. From me." Aurelia nodded understandingly. The Emperor's secrecy had been a festering wound for many of his sons. She knew Guilliman had communed with him before departing, though the nature of their discourse remained private. Her own grievances were different; she had not led armies into the meat grinder of the Great Crusade, had not watched thousands of gene-sons die for a dream that was half-lie. She could empathise, but not fully understand the depth of their betrayal.
"I hope you find the answers you seek, brother. Some peace of mind."
"And once that is done," Dorn continued, his voice firming, "I shall speak with Guilliman. I require a detailed briefing on the objectives of this Indomitus Crusade."
Aurelia chuckled softly. "And I suspect you will have some rather pointed observations regarding the current state of Terra's defences."
Dorn's eyes narrowed slightly, confirming her suspicion. "Indeed. There are… significant inefficiencies to be addressed."