Today was a turning point for Alpharius.
Or perhaps more accurately—for Alpharius and Omegon.
Their return plan had finally begun.
Yuki reclined lazily behind her desk, fingers idly tapping a data-slate as she looked at Alpha with amusement.
"You look very pleased."
Alpha allowed himself the faintest hint of pride.
"Yes, Your Highness. Our Primarch has returned."
He was not even pretending anymore.
The official transmission had not yet reached Terra. The news of Horus discovering a lost Primarch was still confined to secure channels.
Yet Alpha had already discarded his mask.
Yuki knew.
That was enough.
She blinked innocently.
"Really? Then congratulations."
Alpha almost laughed.
For once, he wanted to stand openly among his brothers. No veils. No hidden twin. No endless infiltration layers.
Just… brotherhood.
A knock at the door.
"Sister, are you available?"
Alpha's expression froze instantly.
Except for this one.
"Guilliman. Come in."
Alpha vanished through the window without ceremony.
Guilliman entered directly.
"I've spoken with the Lord Chancellor. I would like clarity regarding the future of the Legiones Astartes."
Ah.
So he had seen the direction of the wind.
"Do what must be done," Yuki said lightly. "What else is there to plan?"
Guilliman did not answer immediately.
He had placed himself in the Emperor's position.
If the Imperium were to transition fully into civilian governance after the Great Crusade…
Then the most efficient solution to the Astartes question was simple.
Retire them.
Or worse.
Once the galaxy was unified, what purpose remained for twenty gene-forged war engines?
Yuki leaned forward.
"It won't come to that."
Guilliman looked up sharply.
"No purge. No extermination. The Astartes may hold authority—but it must be balanced."
This was Yuki's compromise.
Power—but restrained.
Influence—but accountable.
Whether the Emperor shared that view was another matter entirely.
Guilliman frowned.
"If Astartes are demonstrably superior in administration, logistics, and strategic oversight… why not entrust governance to them?"
Yuki tilted her head.
"Curze and Vulkan no longer speak."
Guilliman paused.
"…Yes."
"Dorn has rebuked Curze repeatedly. Sevatar nearly came to blows with Sigismund."
Guilliman narrowed his eyes.
"What does that have to do with civil administration?"
Yuki leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"Difference breeds friction. Culture. Philosophy. Upbringing. Once, all Legions were Terran. Now each Primarch has reshaped his Legion into a reflection of himself."
Guilliman's silence stretched.
"They are no longer unified soldiers," she continued. "They are proto-kingdoms."
That struck home.
Guilliman finished the thought quietly.
"If Astartes already fracture among themselves… how much greater is the divide between Astartes and mortals?"
Yuki nodded.
"I've tried. Education reforms. Civil conduct mandates. Mixed-command protocols. But tell me honestly—can every Legion treat baseline humans as equals?"
Guilliman could defend the Ultramarines.
He could not defend all twenty.
Astartes were hyper-militarized.
They struggled to perceive mortal limitation without condescension.
Then Guilliman's eyes lit with sudden clarity.
"Divide the Legions."
Yuki blinked.
"Into autonomous war formations. Smaller structures reduce warlordism. Force reliance on mortal infrastructure. Decentralize authority. Retain capacity for reunification during existential threats."
Yuki stared at him.
No rebellion had occurred.
No Heresy.
And Guilliman was already halfway to dismantling the Legions.
She patted his shoulder.
"Never say that out loud."
"I am serious."
"So am I. If you tell this to your brothers, they will kill you."
He had no rebuttal.
Every Primarch guarded his Legion like a personal inheritance.
But Guilliman did not abandon the idea.
He had already begun compiling doctrinal reform treatises.
He even had a title.
The Codex Astartes.
Yuki rubbed her forehead.
"Enough politics. We're going to the theatre."
"…Theatre?"
"A new troupe arrived from Europa. Let's see how they perform."
Her smile did not reach her eyes.
Olympia
"I have never enjoyed this Great Crusade."
Perturabo's voice was iron scraping stone.
Usotan met his gaze calmly.
"Then return to Terra and pursue scholarship. We will finish the war."
Perturabo's eyes flared.
"Who permitted you to speak?"
"The Vice-Emperor ordered me to provide unfiltered operational feedback. If she rescinds that order, I will remain silent."
"I am Primarch of the Iron Warriors."
"Yes. You are."
"Then you will obey."
"Her Highness—"
Perturabo's fist struck the table.
Adamantium bent inward.
Silence.
"I admire you," Perturabo said coldly.
Usotan blinked.
"You are resilient. Unlike most. That is why you dare speak."
He stepped closer.
"But admiration does not grant you authority over me."
"Excessive conscription is still your error," Usotan replied evenly.
Olympia was bleeding manpower.
Iron Warriors gene-seed compatibility was exceptionally high—rivaling the Ultramarines.
Recruitment quotas had become brutal.
Agricultural output declined.
Labor structures strained.
Usotan had warned him repeatedly.
Perturabo had ignored it.
Now rebellion loomed.
Dantioch stood.
"I concur with Usotan."
Perturabo's face twisted—not with simple rage, but with something sharper.
He understood the fault.
He would not say it.
He could not.
How could Perturabo be wrong?
Then—
Usotan knelt.
"If I had pressed the matter sooner, perhaps this crisis would not have escalated. I accept punishment."
The room froze.
Dantioch inhaled sharply.
Perturabo stared down at him.
Long seconds passed.
"You are not wrong," Perturabo said at last.
A pause.
"Nor am I."
It was the only reconciliation he could manage.
He could not admit guilt.
But he would not destroy loyalty.
"This meeting did not occur. Dismissed."
The chamber emptied rapidly.
Usotan remained kneeling.
"Do you require punishment?" Perturabo asked coldly.
"No."
Usotan knelt again—but this time sincerely.
"Thank you, my lord."
Perturabo's mouth curved almost imperceptibly.
"Leave."
Usotan rose.
"Wait."
Perturabo tossed something toward him.
Usotan caught it.
A master-crafted bolt pistol.
Balanced perfectly.
"Issue standard. Modified."
A gift.
A silent acknowledgment.
"Yes, my lord."
As Usotan departed, he glanced back once.
Perturabo stood over a star map, illuminated in dim light.
Unmoving.
Precise.
Unyielding.
Something had shifted.
And yet—
Nothing had changed at all.
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