The sound of water in the bathroom ceased.
A moment later, Guilliman’s distinctive voice—carrying a hint of post-bath lethality and the soft, moist quality of steam—drifted clearly through the door: “Calgar.” The Honour Guard stationed outside stiffened as one, as if receiving a supreme directive.
Guard A immediately reported in a low voice on the encrypted channel: “Chapter Master, the Primarch summons you.” Almost simultaneously, heavy and hurried footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor—Calgar had just returned from Cawl’s side, his mind troubled by the Archmagos’s overly “proactive” new work attitude.
Hearing the summons, he immediately accelerated.
“Present!
Father!” He snapped to attention before the door, struggling to keep his voice steady, though his breathing beneath the tactical mask was slightly ragged from the sprint.
There was a two-second silence from within, as if she had already given up on correcting his blurting out of that title.
Then, Guilliman’s voice rang out again, this time with a trace of imperceptible hesitation and…
anticipation?
“My…
clothes, are they ready?” Calgar’s heart gave a violent thud.
Clothes!
That’s right!
The Primarch needed to change after bathing!
She had indeed ordered “fitting clothes” or “female-pattern power armor” earlier, but the situation had been so chaotic that he had only told the Logistics Department to “figure something out,” and then he had been so overwhelmed by the series of shocks that he had almost forgotten the matter!
“Moth…
Father!
Soon!
I’ll go get them right now!” Calgar’s voice rose an octave, laced with obvious panic.
He had no idea what the Logistics Department had prepared!
If they weren’t ready, would the Primarch have to come out to the meeting wrapped in a bath towel?!
By the Emperor, that image was too much for him to even contemplate!
“Immediately!
Right now!” he promised toward the door, then turned and roared at the Honour Guard: “Watch the door!
If the Primarch needs anything, satisfy it immediately!” Before his voice even faded, the servo-motors of his Terminator armor emitted an overloaded hum, and he became a blue hurricane, thundering toward the Logistics Department at a speed that left a faint afterimage at the corridor’s corner.
The guards looked at each other.
Guard B whispered: “Is the Chapter Master…
getting more and more excitable?” Guard C: “Have some understanding.
After all, he has to take care of…
the current Primarch.” Guard D: “I wonder what kind of clothes Logistics prepared…” Guard A (sternly): “Silence!
Focus on the guard!” Macragge Fortress, Department of Logistics and Equipment, High Tailor Workshop.
This place was usually responsible for repairing battle standards, sewing ceremonial sashes, and maintaining the Honour Guard’s cloaks.
The atmosphere was typically solemn, filled with the scents of machine oil, fabric, and incense.
But at this moment, the scene inside the workshop was enough to make any passing Ultramarine wonder if they had fallen into a chaotic hallucination.
In the center of the workshop, several shadowless lamps illuminated the workbench with brilliant light.
On the table lay a vast array of fabrics—primarily the deep blue symbolizing the Ultramarines and the pure white silk and thick velvet of Macragge’s noble tradition, along with some gold thread and emerald-green decorative tulle for accents.
Surrounding the workbench were five muscular steel giants in power armor, averaging over two and a half meters in height.
At this moment, they were not holding Bolters or power swords, but were…
pinching delicate sewing needles, soft tape measures, and chalk, or operating precision automatic fabric cutters.
Leading them was none other than the Captain of the Second Company of the Ultramarines, Sicarius, renowned for his calm and meticulous nature.
He had removed the power fist from one hand, revealing the fingers encased in a flexible combat suit, and was carefully using a fine needle to pin a cut piece of white silk lining to a piece of deep blue velvet.
His expression was as serious as if he were formulating a system-wide battle plan.
“Here, the curve of the shoulder line must be precise,” Sicarius said without looking up, his voice low and focused.
“It must be ergonomic to ensure the Primarch experiences no unnecessary friction or restriction during movement.
Simultaneously, it must retain a sufficient sense of elegant drape.” “But Captain Sicarius,” another warrior nearby said, holding a tape measure and gesturing toward the prototype of a skirt hem, his brow furrowed, “according to the data from the earlier scan of the Primarch’s new physique, the waist-to-hip ratio is a standard 0.7.
If we strictly follow the structure of a classical Macragge lady’s gown, it might impede movement.
I believe the lower half should employ a segmented skirt design, lined with flexible fiber and layered with decorative pleated gauze.
This would maintain a dignified bearing while providing convenience should the Primarch need to move rapidly.” “That makes sense.” Another warrior leaned in, holding a dust-covered copy of “Macragge Classical Costume Illustration (Female Edition)” urgently retrieved from the fortress library, pointing to an illustration.
“Look, ancient female Archons would also wear modified dresses for ease of movement during military reviews.
We can reference this, but we must replace the decorative family crests with the Ultramarines’ aquila and Olive Branch.” “So, the primary colors will be the base blue and white?” another warrior asked, attempting to thread a strand of gold silk through a needle eye—a task comparable to micro-carving for his thick fingers, causing sweat to bead on his forehead.
“Without a doubt.
Blue symbolizes loyalty and the ocean, while white symbolizes purity and the marble of Macragge.
These are the Primarch’s signature colors and cannot be changed under any circumstances,” Sicarius affirmed, finally pinning the lining in place and nodding with satisfaction.
“Wait,” the warrior who had suggested the segmented skirt suddenly looked up, a hint of hesitation flashing in his eyes, but he still lowered his voice to propose a “bold” idea.
“Um…
should we consider preparing…
stockings for the Primarch?
I mean, the kind made of a material similar to high-grade tight combat suits, with extremely fine energy circuits?
They could refine the leg shape, provide basic protection and temperature control, and…
they would fit the current overall style?” Silence.
The workshop instantly became pin-drop quiet.
Even the hum of the automatic fabric cutter seemed to stop.
Every Ultramarine, including Sicarius, snapped their heads around to stare at the speaker with complex gazes mixed with disbelief, shock, contemplation, and a hint of “how the hell did you think of that?” The speaker’s face turned bright red, fortunately hidden by his helmet.
He stammered an explanation: “I-I’m only thinking from the perspective of functional and aesthetic unity!
And records show that certain noble women of the Imperium, such as some Inquisitors or Planetary Governor’s wives, also wear similar items on formal occasions!
This…
this doesn’t mean anything!”