The day Bartholomew met Vulkan started like any other day in his increasingly insane life.
That is to say, it started with someone telling him that something impossible was about to happen and him responding with resigned acceptance.
"Three Primarchs are coming," Inquisitor Vorn announced, striding into his quarters without knocking. "They'll be here within the hour."
Bartholomew, who had been in the middle of trying to figure out how to operate the refresher unit in his bathroom (Imperial plumbing was weird), dropped the instruction manual he'd been reading.
"I'm sorry, what?"
"Primarchs. Three of them. Guilliman, the Lion, and Vulkan. They're coming to meet you."
"Three... three Primarchs?"
"Yes."
"The demigod sons of the Emperor?"
"The very same."
"Coming here?"
"Within the hour."
"To meet me?"
"That appears to be the case, yes."
Bartholomew sat down heavily on his bed.
"Why?" he asked weakly.
"I don't know. The Emperor's orders, apparently. He wants them to 'know you.'" Vorn's expression suggested she found this as incomprehensible as he did. "I would recommend showering. And possibly praying. Both might help."
"I don't think prayer is going to help with this."
"Neither do I, but it can't hurt."
One hour later, Bartholomew stood in the main hangar bay, surrounded by his retinue, watching three of the largest ships he had ever seen dock with the station.
His retinue was tense.
The Ultramarines were standing at perfect attention, clearly torn between professional pride and abject terror at the thought of their Primarch seeing them serve under a mortal.
The Space Wolves were surprisingly subdued, which Bartholomew had learned meant they were either deeply respectful or preparing to start a fight. Possibly both.
Shield-Captain Valdor stood like a golden statue, radiating the particular stillness of someone who was very used to being in the presence of demigods.
And Commissar Cain had attempted to hide behind a cargo container, only to be dragged back by Inquisitor Vorn, who had apparently decided that if she had to suffer through this, everyone else did too.
"This is fine," Bartholomew muttered to himself. "This is totally fine. I'm just meeting three of the Emperor's sons. No big deal. No pressure."
"You're sweating," Cain observed.
"I'm aware."
"Through your armor."
"I'M AWARE."
The first ship's docking clamps engaged with a resonant clang that echoed through the hangar.
The airlock cycled.
And Vulkan stepped through.
Bartholomew had seen pictures. He had read the books. He had painted the miniatures.
None of it had prepared him for the reality.
Vulkan was massive—even by Primarch standards, he was enormous, a mountain of obsidian muscle and warm, golden eyes. He radiated heat, literal heat, like a furnace wrapped in humanoid form. His armor was green and gold, adorned with drake scales and salamander motifs, and at his hip hung the legendary Dawnbringer—the master-crafted thunder hammer that had shattered countless enemies of the Imperium.
But what struck Bartholomew most was his presence.
The other warriors he had met—Space Marines, Custodians, even the Emperor Himself—had all radiated power. Danger. The implicit promise of violence.
Vulkan radiated warmth.
Not just physical warmth, but emotional warmth. A sense of safety, of protection, of kindness that was almost overwhelming.
"You must be Bartholomew," Vulkan said, his voice like a gentle earthquake.
Bartholomew's brain short-circuited.
"Hnng," he replied.
Vulkan smiled—an actual, genuine smile that crinkled the corners of his golden eyes.
"I see the reports were accurate. You are indeed easily overwhelmed."
"You're—you're Vulkan," Bartholomew managed. "THE Vulkan. Lord of Drakes. The Primarch of the Salamanders. The only perpetual among the Primarchs. The one who—"
"You know of me?"
"You're my favorite."
The words were out before Bartholomew could stop them.
"I mean—I mean in the—in the stories, where I come from, you were always my favorite—because you actually cared about people, not just as resources but as people, and you hugged that kid during the Great Crusade and the whole thing with the Eldar and the Exodites and you felt bad about killing them even though they were xenos and—"
He realized he was rambling.
He stopped.
Vulkan was staring at him with an expression of open surprise.
"You know of the Exodites?" he asked quietly. "Of my... regrets?"
"I—yes. In the lore—in the stories. It's documented. How you struggled with what the Crusade required. How you were one of the few Primarchs who questioned whether slaughter was always necessary." Bartholomew swallowed. "It's one of the reasons you were my favorite. You weren't just strong. You were kind. And kind is rare. Especially here."
Vulkan was silent for a long moment.
Then he laughed—a deep, rumbling sound like distant thunder.
"I came here expecting many things," he said. "A madman, perhaps. A charlatan. A freak of nature that needed to be evaluated for threats."
He stepped forward and placed a massive hand on Bartholomew's shoulder. The touch was gentle, despite the size difference.
"I did not expect to meet someone who understood me."
The arrival of the other two Primarchs was somewhat less emotional.
Roboute Guilliman emerged from the second ship with the precise, measured stride of someone who had literally written the book on military procedure. His armor was blue and gold, pristine and magnificent, and his eyes swept the hangar with the calculating efficiency of a strategist assessing a new battlefield.
"So," he said, his voice carrying the weight of ten thousand years of governance. "You are Jenkins."
"I am," Bartholomew said, still recovering from his Vulkan-induced emotional state.
"I have read the reports. All of them. They are contradictory, confusing, and occasionally physically impossible."
"That seems accurate."
"I do not like contradictions. I do not like confusion. And I especially do not like physical impossibilities."
"I'm sorry?"
Guilliman's expression suggested that apologies were insufficient.
"However," the Primarch continued, "my Father has ordered me to 'know you.' And I follow my Father's orders. Even the ones I do not understand."
"That's... very dutiful of you."
"Duty is what I have. It is, perhaps, all I have." There was something almost sad in Guilliman's voice. "We will speak later, you and I. I have... questions."
"I probably don't have answers."
"I am becoming accustomed to that."
Lion El'Jonson was the last to arrive, and his entrance was the most dramatic.
He didn't just walk out of his ship. He emerged, like a predator leaving its den, his dark armor seeming to absorb the light around him. His face was harsh and uncompromising, his eyes sharp with suspicion.
"Jenkins," he said. Not a greeting. A statement.
"That's me."
"I have read the reports."
"Everyone keeps saying that."
"They are troubling."
"I've been told."
The Lion studied him for a long moment, his gaze piercing.
"You are not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Something more... impressive. You appear to be a normal human. Unremarkable in every physical aspect."
"Thanks?"
"It was not a compliment. It was an observation." The Lion's eyes narrowed. "And yet, normal humans do not defeat Custodians. They do not pilot Titans without training. They do not attract the attention of gods and daemons alike."
"I don't do any of those things on purpose."
"That is what concerns me."
The introductions complete, the group retired to a large conference room that had been hastily prepared for the occasion.
Hastily, in this case, meant that several hundred servitors had worked through the night to ensure that everything was up to Primarch standards—which, Bartholomew reflected, was an impossibly high bar that probably couldn't actually be met.
The three Primarchs sat on one side of a massive table. Bartholomew sat on the other, flanked by his retinue (who all looked like they wished they were anywhere else).
Vulkan was the first to speak.
"Tell us about yourself, Bartholomew. Who you were, before you came to this place."
"I was nobody," Bartholomew said honestly. "I worked a job I didn't care about. I lived in my mother's basement. I painted miniatures and read books about fictional universes and argued about lore on the internet."
"The internet?" Guilliman asked.
"It's... a communication network. From my world. Everyone's connected to it. You can share information, talk to people, argue about meaningless things for hours on end."
"That sounds inefficient."
"It really, really was."
"And these miniatures," Vulkan interjected. "You painted them?"
"Yes. Little models. Of... of you, actually. Of the Space Marines, the Primarchs, the enemies of humanity. It was a game. A hobby."
"We were... toys?" The Lion's voice was dangerous.
"Not toys, exactly. Game pieces. And works of art, in their own way. People would spend hundreds of hours painting a single army. Making it perfect. Making it theirs."
"And you played games with these... game pieces?"
"Yes. Tactical games. Battles. We would roll dice and consult rulebooks and argue about whether certain abilities worked the way we thought they did."
Guilliman leaned forward, suddenly interested.
"Tactical games. With rules."
"Yes."
"Detailed rules?"
"Extremely detailed. There were books and books of rules. FAQs, errata, tournament guidelines. The community spent years debating the proper interpretation of certain passages."
Something flickered in Guilliman's eyes.
"Tell me more about these rules."
What followed was possibly the strangest hour of Bartholomew's life.
And given that his life now included meeting Chaos Gods, piloting Titans, and befriending sentient Warp-entities, that was saying something.
Roboute Guilliman, Lord Commander of the Imperium, Primarch of the Ultramarines, author of the Codex Astartes—wanted to know about tabletop gaming rules.
"So the movement phase occurs before the shooting phase?" Guilliman asked, his brow furrowed with concentration.
"Usually, yes. Though some abilities let you move after shooting, or shoot after moving in ways that normally wouldn't be allowed."
"Exceptions to the rules. Interesting. And how are these exceptions determined?"
"They're written on the unit's data sheet. Each unit has its own special rules that modify the basic framework."
"A modular system, then. Base rules with unit-specific modifications."
"Exactly!"
"Fascinating." Guilliman pulled out a data-slate and began taking notes. "And you say the balance between units is maintained through a points system?"
"Yes. Stronger units cost more points. You build an army within a points limit, so you have to make choices about what to include."
"Resource allocation within constraints. A fundamental principle of strategy."
"That's... that's exactly what it is, yeah."
Vulkan was watching the exchange with visible amusement.
Lion El'Jonson was watching with visible confusion.
"Brother," the Lion said, after Guilliman had spent ten minutes asking about the intricacies of morale testing, "why are you so interested in this?"
"Because it's a tactical system designed by people who studied war," Guilliman replied without looking up. "They have condensed the principles of warfare into a playable format. That requires deep understanding of strategy, logistics, and unit capabilities."
"They also included magic and daemons and psychic powers."
"Yes, but within a framework. A balanced framework." Guilliman finally looked at his brother. "Do you not see the implications? Somewhere, in another reality, people have been analyzing warfare—our warfare—for entertainment. Simplifying it. Testing it. Finding the optimal strategies."
"For a game."
"Games often reflect deeper truths. Father knew this. He used games to teach us, when we were young." Guilliman turned back to Bartholomew. "Tell me more about competitive play. You mentioned tournaments?"
The Lion, apparently deciding that listening to his brother discuss game balance was beneath his dignity, stood and walked to the window overlooking the void.
Vulkan joined him.
"He is passionate about systems," Vulkan observed quietly.
"He is passionate about control," the Lion corrected. "These rules, these frameworks—they represent order. Predictability. Everything Roboute craves."
"Is that so wrong?"
"No. But it blinds him to other possibilities." The Lion nodded toward Bartholomew, who was now drawing diagrams on a data-slate to explain line-of-sight rules. "That mortal does not fit any system. He is chaos—not the Chaos of the gods, but genuine unpredictability. Roboute will never understand him."
"Will you?"
"I understand threats. That is enough."
"Is he a threat?"
The Lion was quiet for a long moment.
"I don't know," he admitted finally. "And that troubles me more than anything else."
The lore debate started accidentally, as most things in Bartholomew's life did.
Guilliman had asked about the Ultramarines' representation in the game—specifically, whether they were depicted accurately.
Bartholomew, without thinking, had replied: "Well, there's some debate about that in the community."
Guilliman's eyes had sharpened.
"Debate?"
"Some people think the Ultramarines are portrayed as too... perfect. Too dominant. There's a term—'Ultramarines bias'—that gets thrown around a lot."
"Bias? Against whom?"
"Well, other chapters feel underrepresented. The Space Wolves fans are particularly vocal. And Iron Hands supporters—"
"The Iron Hands have supporters?"
"Everyone has supporters. Every chapter, every faction. People identify with different groups based on their aesthetics, their playstyle, their lore."
And then, fatefully, Bartholomew had added:
"Some people argue that the Codex Astartes is too restrictive. That it limits tactical flexibility and creativity."
Dead silence.
Guilliman's expression shifted from curious to focused.
"I see. And what specific criticisms are leveled against the Codex?"
"Uh..."
"Please. Be specific. I am interested in... external perspectives."
What followed was less a debate and more a doctoral defense, with Bartholomew as the unwitting candidate and Guilliman as the extremely intense examiner.
"The primary criticism is that the Codex was written in response to specific circumstances—the Heresy, the Scouring—and may not be appropriate for all situations."
"Go on."
"Some argue that the division of the Legions into Chapters, while preventing another Heresy, also reduced the Imperium's ability to concentrate force effectively."
"An interesting perspective. Continue."
"There's also the question of whether strict adherence to the Codex discourages adaptation. If a Chapter follows the Codex too rigidly, they might fail to develop new tactics suited to their unique circumstances."
Guilliman steepled his fingers.
"And what is the counter-argument?"
"That the Codex provides a foundation—a common framework that allows Chapters to work together effectively. That without it, the Adeptus Astartes would be a fractured mess of competing traditions and incompatible doctrines."
"Which is what it was before. Yes." Guilliman nodded slowly. "I wrote the Codex in a specific context. The wounds of the Heresy were fresh. Trust was shattered. The Legions needed to be broken. To be constrained."
"The question is whether those constraints are still necessary."
"Exactly." Guilliman leaned forward. "And what is your opinion?"
Bartholomew hesitated.
"You're asking me? The guy who's been here for like, six months?"
"I'm asking someone with a unique perspective. Someone who has studied these questions from the outside. What do you think?"
Bartholomew took a deep breath.
"I think... I think the Codex was the right answer to the wrong question."
"Explain."
"The question you were answering was 'how do we prevent another Heresy?' And the answer was 'limit power, constrain resources, enforce standardization.' But the real question—the one that caused the Heresy in the first place—was 'how do we build a society where people don't want to betray each other?' And the Codex doesn't address that at all."
Guilliman was very still.
"You're saying I treated the symptoms, not the disease."
"I'm saying you did what you could with what you had. But ten thousand years later, maybe it's time to ask different questions."
Lion El'Jonson, who had been watching from the window, actually laughed.
It was not a warm laugh. It was the laugh of someone who had just witnessed something unexpected and wasn't sure how to process it.
"The mortal has a point," he said. "I never agreed with the Codex. Too rigid. Too limiting."
"You never agree with anything I do," Guilliman replied.
"Because you are often wrong."
"And you are often paranoid."
"Paranoia has kept me alive for ten thousand years."
"So has pragmatism."
"Brothers," Vulkan interrupted gently. "Perhaps we could focus on the matter at hand?"
The two Primarchs subsided, though the tension between them remained palpable.
"The mortal raises interesting points," Guilliman said finally. "I will... consider them."
"That's all I ask," Bartholomew said.
"No. You ask for nothing. That's part of what makes you so unusual." Guilliman shook his head. "Everyone asks me for things. Permission, resources, approval. You ask for nothing. You simply... observe. And occasionally say things that make me question my life's work."
"Sorry?"
"Don't apologize. It's refreshing. Infuriating, but refreshing."
The incident with Vulkan's hammer happened during a break in the discussions.
Bartholomew had wandered over to where Vulkan was standing, admiring a display of weapons that the Salamanders Primarch had brought as examples of his craft.
"These are beautiful," Bartholomew said, looking at a collection of master-crafted bolters and power swords.
"Thank you. Smithing has always been my meditation. Even during the darkest times, I could find peace at the forge."
"It shows. The detail work is incredible."
Vulkan smiled. "You have an eye for craftsmanship. Perhaps because of your experience with the miniatures?"
"Maybe. Painting taught me to appreciate the small details. The things most people overlook."
"That is a valuable skill." Vulkan gestured toward the largest weapon in the display—Dawnbringer, his personal thunder hammer. "Would you like a closer look?"
"At Dawnbringer? I mean—is that allowed? It's a relic. A holy artifact."
"It's a hammer. A very good hammer, but a hammer nonetheless. I do not stand on ceremony about my tools."
Vulkan lifted Dawnbringer from its mount and held it out.
Bartholomew stared.
"You want me to... hold it?"
"If you wish. I find that people understand craftsmanship better when they can feel the weight of it in their hands."
With trembling fingers, Bartholomew reached out and took the hammer.
He expected it to be impossibly heavy. Dawnbringer was a Primarch's weapon, forged for a being of superhuman strength. A normal human shouldn't even be able to lift it.
He lifted it easily.
"That's... that's not right," he said.
Vulkan's eyes widened.
"No. It is not."
Dawnbringer felt natural in Bartholomew's hands. Like it belonged there. Like it had been waiting for him.
And then the hammer caught fire.
Not damaging fire. Not burning-everything-in-the-vicinity fire.
Comfortable fire.
Golden flames erupted along the hammer's head, dancing and flickering, radiating warmth without heat. They illuminated Bartholomew's face, reflected in his eyes, surrounded him in a corona of light.
"What the—" Bartholomew started.
"Fascinating," Vulkan breathed.
The other Primarchs had turned to look. Lion's hand was on his sword. Guilliman had taken a step back.
"What is he doing?" Lion demanded.
"I don't know," Vulkan said, his voice filled with wonder rather than alarm. "But those flames... they are not his. They are mine."
"What?"
"The fire of the Salamanders. The fire I carry within me. It is... responding to him."
Bartholomew looked at the flames dancing on the hammer, then at his hands, then at Vulkan.
"I didn't do this on purpose."
"I believe you. But you are doing it nonetheless."
The flames grew brighter, spreading up Bartholomew's arms without burning him. They formed patterns—scales, dragons, the sigils of the Salamanders Chapter.
"This is impossible," Guilliman said. "No mortal can wield a Primarch's fire."
"This mortal can, apparently." Vulkan stepped closer, studying the flames with academic interest. "The fire recognizes him. Accepts him. It is not merely responding to his presence—it is bonding with him."
"Can you... can you take it back?" Bartholomew asked, starting to panic.
"I could. But I don't think I should."
"Why not?!"
"Because this is a gift. My fire does not bond with just anyone. In ten thousand years, it has never bonded with anyone but me." Vulkan's golden eyes met Bartholomew's. "You are special. Not because of your powers or your blessings, but because of who you are. The fire can sense it. It wants to protect you."
"I don't want to be protected by fire!"
"Then think of it as a friend. A warm friend, who will never let you be cold."
The flames, as if responding to Vulkan's words, settled down. They retreated from Bartholomew's arms, condensing into a small, flickering ball that hovered above his palm.
"You have given me a gift in return," Vulkan said softly. "You reminded me of who I was. Who I wanted to be, before the weight of millennia changed me. For that, I give you a portion of my fire. Use it well."
Bartholomew stared at the small flame in his hand.
It was warm. Comforting. And somehow, impossibly, it felt like home.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Thank you, little smith." Vulkan's smile was radiant. "Thank you for reminding me that wonders still exist."
Lion El'Jonson watched the entire exchange with narrowed eyes.
"This is not normal," he said to Guilliman.
"Nothing about him is normal. We have established this."
"No. I mean this is specifically not normal. Vulkan's fire is unique. It is tied to his perpetual nature, to his very soul. It should not be transferable."
"And yet it transferred."
"Exactly." The Lion's hand had not left his sword. "What if he is a threat we do not recognize? What if his power to affect others—to bond with Vulkan's fire, to gain abilities from proximity—is itself a weapon?"
"Then we would be in danger simply by being near him."
"We might be."
Guilliman considered this.
"Father told us to be nice to him."
"Father has been wrong before."
"Has He?"
The Lion had no response to that.
The rest of the meeting passed in a blur for Bartholomew.
He was too distracted by the small flame dancing in his palm—the flame that refused to go out, that flickered and pulsed like a living heartbeat, that made him feel, for the first time since arriving in this universe, genuinely safe.
He barely noticed when the Primarchs departed, each leaving with their own impressions of the strange mortal who had upended their expectations.
Vulkan clasped his shoulder and called him "brother-of-fire."
Guilliman shook his hand and promised to "continue their discussions at a later date."
Lion stared at him for a long moment and said nothing at all, which was probably the most concerning response of the three.
And then they were gone, and Bartholomew was alone with his fire and his confusion and the growing suspicion that his life was never, ever going to make sense again.
You did well, the Warp-voice said.
I accidentally acquired fire powers. How is that doing well?
You impressed a Primarch. You intellectually challenged another. You survived the Lion's scrutiny without being stabbed.
The bar for 'doing well' seems very low.
In this universe, it is.
Bartholomew looked at the flame in his palm.
What is this, really?
A gift. An honest gift, freely given. Those are rare. Treasure it.
But why can I use it? I'm not a Primarch. I'm not a perpetual. I'm just... me.
You are not 'just' anything. You are a nexus. A convergence point. Things that should not be possible become possible around you. That is your nature.
I didn't ask for that nature.
No. But you have it. And now you also have fire.
Bartholomew sighed.
The flame flickered in response, almost sympathetically.
"I guess I'll add 'pyromancer' to the list of things I am now," he muttered.
It is a good list. Growing by the day.
"That's what worries me."
That night, Bartholomew sat alone in his quarters, watching the flame dance in his palm.
He thought about Vulkan—the warmth in his eyes, the genuine kindness in his voice.
He thought about Guilliman—the brilliant mind, the endless drive for order, the desperate need to understand.
He thought about the Lion—the suspicion, the vigilance, the cold calculation behind every glance.
Three brothers. Three sons of a god. Each shaped by millennia of war and loss and duty.
And somehow, impossibly, they had come to meet him.
"What am I becoming?" he asked the darkness.
The flame brightened slightly, as if in response.
But the darkness had no answers.
Neither did he.
Sleep, the Warp-voice suggested. Tomorrow will bring new impossibilities.
"It always does."
Then rest while you can. The Primarchs will return. Others will come. The universe has noticed you, and the universe does not un-notice things.
Bartholomew closed his fist around the flame.
It didn't go out. It just moved inside him, settling somewhere near his heart, a warm presence that promised protection.
"Goodnight, fire," he murmured.
The warmth pulsed once, gently, like a heartbeat.
And despite everything—the confusion, the fear, the overwhelming weight of impossibility—Bartholomew smiled.
Because for the first time in a long time, he didn't feel alone.
[END OF CHAPTER NINE]