Chapter 65 For Your Glory and the Glory of the Lord of Terra
Rogal Dorn's story was, much like the man himself, austere, disciplined… and utterly without ornament.
Inwit
Inwit lay within the cold reaches of the Imperium's galactic north, a frigid world locked in ice and relentless seasonal extremes. Its resources were scarce, its climate brutal, and its people forced into constant migration between fortified hive-holds to survive the shifting polar storms.
Hardship forged character.
On Inwit, survival depended upon duty, endurance, and sacrifice for the collective.
Long before the Primarch's arrival, the Inwit Cluster had formed a stellar confederation of fortress-worlds and void stations, ruled not by kings but by austere councils bound by oath and tradition.
The child who fell from the stars was taken in by the ruling Dorn lineage.
He was raised by the clan elder — a man he would later call grandfather — and from him the boy learned discipline, siegecraft, logistics, and the harsh calculus of governance in a hostile universe.
By adolescence he had surpassed every tutor.
By early manhood he had unified the Inwit Cluster.
The Phalanx
Orbiting Inwit hung an ancient relic of the Dark Age of Technology: a colossal void-fortress whose systems had lain dormant for millennia.
The people called it the Phalanx.
None could awaken it.
Rogal Dorn could.
Under his guidance, ancient machine-spirits stirred. Reactor cores ignited. Weapon arrays awakened. Void shields flared like newborn suns.
With the Phalanx restored, Dorn prepared to carry the strength of Inwit into the stars.
Then the Imperial fleet arrived.
Father and Son
Within the immense halls of the Phalanx, Yuki and the Emperor met the lord of Inwit.
"I am Rogal Dorn."
"I am your father."
Dorn studied the golden giant before him for only a moment.
"Understood."
He knelt.
"I pledge my strength, my will, and my life to the Imperium of Man."
Even the Emperor paused.
No suspicion. No negotiation. No test.
Only acceptance.
But Dorn saw no contradiction. The Imperium promised unity for mankind. The Emperor possessed the power to achieve it. And the Emperor was his father.
No further deliberation was required.
The Emperor explained the Imperium's purpose and entrusted Dorn with command of the Seventh Legion.
He also formally recognized Dorn's stewardship of the Phalanx — though in truth, Dorn had already claimed it through mastery rather than inheritance.
Dorn and Yuki
"Parades are unnecessary displays," Dorn stated flatly.
Yuki coughed.
"The person who invented them may also be vain."
Yuki clutched her chest.
"Please stop attacking me personally."
Dorn's brow furrowed.
"I am not attacking you. I am stating an operational inefficiency."
Dorn embodied the Inwit ethos: unyielding resolve, absolute honesty, and a refusal to mask truth with comfort. He rejected deception — even when diplomacy might have benefited from it.
Yuki often felt she should write a manual:
How to Communicate Without Causing Structural Damage to Interpersonal Relationships
But she suspected Dorn would read it once, return it annotated with corrections, and request revised editions.
The Emperor intervened.
"We return to Terra. You will attend your triumphal procession."
Dorn frowned.
"Unnecessary."
"That was not a request."
Dorn nodded.
He understood hierarchy.
Orders were efficient.
Terra Approaches
As Terra grew in the viewport, Dorn studied orbital defenses.
"I could breach this defense network within thirty-two days."
Yuki hesitated.
If an enemy could bypass the outer pickets, evade the Imperial Fists, avoid detection by the Emperor and Malcador, and reach Terra itself, abdication might indeed be appropriate.
Still, she tried.
"Dorn… when you meet our brothers… perhaps soften your phrasing?"
"Why?"
"Be tactful."
"I was tactful."
"…more tactful?"
"No."
"…okay."
Dorn returned to silent observation, as immovable as a bastion wall.
Arrival on Terra
The gathered populace waited eagerly.
The last Primarch had been a towering, soot-skinned giant with a gentle heart. The Salamanders' reputation among civilians had already become legendary.
What would this new son of the Emperor be?
Dorn descended.
Tall. Broad. Unsmiling.
A warrior carved from stone.
He approached his brothers.
"I am Rogal Dorn."
The statement landed with the subtlety of orbital bombardment.
Horus recovered first.
"Horus Lupercal. Welcome, brother."
Introductions followed.
Fulgrim smiled.
"Brother, you seem displeased. Could you not smile for the people?"
Dorn replied evenly:
"This parade is inefficient and wastes resources. Only a fool would desire it."
Silence.
Fulgrim's hand froze mid-gesture.
He had once staged celebrations across Chemos that lasted weeks.
Malcador closed his eyes briefly.
Vulkan stepped forward smoothly.
"Brothers, the people are waiting."
Malcador felt an overwhelming surge of gratitude.
Vulkan was a blessing.
The Imperial Fists Meet Their Primarch
Sigismund had awaited this day.
He intended to respectfully address the Legion's excessive rigidity.
Under their Primarch, improvement would surely come.
(He was certain.)
Then Rogal Dorn approached.
Sigismund felt a sudden chill.
"I am Rogal Dorn, your Primarch."
His presence radiated absolute discipline — not merely command, but expectation.
Sigismund understood instantly:
The Legion had not been too rigid.
It had been insufficiently rigid.
The stalwart of the Imperium had arrived at his bastion.
Elsewhere: The Emperor's Triumph
At the Terra shipyards, the Emperor stood before his completed flagship.
Externally calm.
Internally triumphant.
For decades he had overseen its design.
Every system.
Every line.
Every cathedral-like vault.
Before them rose a vessel that resembled a void-borne cathedral more than a warship — gold-inlaid buttresses, marble reliefs, and monumental arches framing batteries capable of annihilating fleets.
Yuki stared upward.
"Dad… your aesthetic sense…"
"Silence."
"…it's extremely consistent."
The Emperor turned away with imperial dignity.
Yuki suppressed a grin.
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