“Absurd!” another warrior immediately countered, his voice slightly distorted by agitation.
“How noble is the Primarch!
How can she be compared to mundane women!
Wearing a dress is already a matter of expediency, but stockings…
how improper!
This would damage the Primarch’s dignity!” “But the Primarch’s current form is female!” the speaker argued his point.
“The clothing we prepare for her should match her physiological characteristics and social role expectations!
Should we let the Primarch wear ill-fitting men’s robes?” “But stockings just sound too…
too…” “Too what?
Say it clearly!” “Too…
unserious!” “That’s just your prejudice against functional apparel!” “That’s your misunderstanding of the Primarch’s dignity!” Just as the two warriors were about to put down their needles (and tape measures) to debate in a more “traditional” manner (such as with power fists)— “BANG!!!” The reinforced door of the workshop was kicked open—no, roughly shoved open.
Clad in Terminator armor and radiating an aura of “I’m in a hurry and I’m going to kill someone,” Calgar charged in like an enraged gorilla.
“ENOUGH!!!” Calgar’s roar made the workshop’s ceiling lights shake.
His bloodshot gaze swept over the workbench, the half-finished blue-and-white dress, the several subordinates holding needles with frozen expressions, and finally landed on the open “Classical Costume Illustration.” His processor (brain) seemed to stall for 0.1 seconds.
Sicarius…
was sewing clothes?
That book…
for women?
They were discussing…
stockings?!
By the Emperor…
But in the next second, a more urgent sense of crisis overwhelmed everything.
He stepped up to the workbench and slammed his massive fist onto the surface (carefully avoiding the clothing): “Mother…
ahem!
Father!
Has finished bathing and is waiting for clothes!” Calgar’s voice was practically a scream.
“You!
All of you!
Finish it!
Now!
Immediately!
Right now!” He pointed at the semi-finished dress, then jerked his finger toward a display rack in the corner where an exquisite Laurel Crown woven from fresh olive branches and gold silk, inlaid with small sapphires, sat—it was originally a ceremonial decoration, quickly modified by someone’s quick hands to fit a smaller head circumference.
“And that!
The laurel!
Together!” Calgar spoke incoherently but clearly.
“I don’t care if you sew it, glue it, or use a welding torch!
I want to see a complete, wearable, formal outfit fitting for a Primarch in thirty seconds!
Otherwise, I’m sending you all to clean the Space Hulk waste circulation systems!
For a hundred years!” AI Model: gemini-3.1-flash-lite Under the Chapter Master’s so-called “gentle” prodding, the Ultramarines displayed higher efficiency and teamwork than when facing the Tyranids.
Sicarius completed the final stitching and fastening with astonishing dexterity.
The warrior holding the measuring tape swiftly conducted a final size check.
The warrior with the gold thread finally threaded the needle and began embroidering the final aquila patterns on the collar and cuffs.
The warrior who had proposed the stockings exchanged a glance with his opponent, and with a silent understanding, they both grabbed the hem and lining to perform the final adjustments.
Eighteen seconds later.
A complete set of clothing, laid out on the workbench, appeared before Calgar.
The main piece was a knee-length dress.
The bodice was made of deep “Ultramarines Blue” velvet, tailored to fit, with delicate white lace edging the neckline, tightened cuffs, and embroidered with golden aquila and Olive Branch patterns.
A wide white silk sash was tied at the waist, centered with a blue gemstone buckle.
The lower part was a white satin skirt with fine vertical pleats, cleverly split into front and back panels at the knee, maintaining the dress’s elegance while ensuring freedom of movement.
The hem of the skirt was embroidered with simple wave and star patterns in gold and blue thread, symbolizing Macragge.
The entire dress had clean, flowing lines, and the blue and white color scheme was solemn and elegant, with details that exuded refinement and nobility, perfectly blending the Primarch’s identity with her current physical form.
Beside it lay the fresh, emerald-green olive wreath, entwined with golden threads, with a few small sapphires dotting the leaves like morning dew.
There were no stockings—time did not permit them to continue arguing this point, so it was tacitly shelved.
Calgar had no time to examine it closely; he grabbed the dress and the wreath, the texture soft and smooth to the touch, vastly different from the metal and ceramic he was accustomed to.
He cradled them carefully, as if holding a fragile holy relic, and transformed back into a blue whirlwind, rushing out of the workshop.
Leaving behind five exhausted Ultramarines tailors, their eyes gleaming with a strange sense of accomplishment.
Sicarius looked at his fingers, which had just been holding a needle, and muttered, “Who would have thought that the skills used to mend battle banners would one day be used for this…” “Captain,” the warrior who suggested the stockings asked in a low voice, “did we…
count as having performed a meritorious service?” Sicarius was silent for a moment before nodding slowly.
“To share the burden of the Primarch, regardless of the form, is loyalty.
Today’s events shall be entered into the Chapter’s classified archives, security level: Maximum.” “Yes!” When Calgar rushed back to the bathroom door, cradling the clothes, only a little over a minute had passed.
“Fa—Father!
The clothes…
have been retrieved!” he said respectfully, steadying his breathing.
The bathroom door slid open silently, and an arm, fair and slender with a faint pink flush from the bath, reached out, droplets of water clinging to it.
That small hand beckoned…
at the clothes Calgar was holding.
Calgar understood immediately and carefully handed the neatly folded dress and wreath to that small hand.
Their fingertips inevitably brushed against each other; the warm, smooth sensation made him retract his hand as if electrocuted, his face turning bright red again beneath his tactical helmet.
“Thank you.” Guilliman’s voice came from inside, seemingly carrying a trace of imperceptible shyness.
The door closed again.
Calgar and the Honour Guard outside the door stood at attention, like students awaiting exam results, their hearts filled with nervousness and inexplicable anticipation.