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The embers of war had gone cold.
The Word Bearers fleet hung in the void like a vast gray cemetery, its hulls carved with sacred reliefs, drifting in silence amid the sea of stars.
Around it lay the ruins of the xenos bio-ship, utterly purified, utterly still.
The aftershocks of battle had broken into trails of fine debris.
Beneath the dim, blood-red light of Sios, they drifted like ash.
Then, in that stretch of space still raw from extreme violence, a new warp rift quietly tore open the veil of realspace.
The energies surging through it were smoother, more majestic than anything an ordinary vessel’s translation produced.
A warship emerged.
It was vast enough to redefine the very geometry of this corner of the stars.
It glided out from the rift with elegance and authority, and its arrival carried an unequivocal declaration, of order, of civilization, of power that did not need to announce itself.
Its hull lines were grand and classical.
The blue-and-gold livery blazed with vivid brilliance even under the dim light of the Red Giant, and at its prow the resplendent Aquila and the Sigil of Macragge shone without apology.
The pride of the XIII Legion.
The Flagship of the Ultramarines.
The Gloriana-class battleship, Macragge’s Honour.
Inside the vast hangar bay of the Hundred Battles Return, the atmosphere had already shifted.
The bloodshed and ferocity were gone.
In their place: a solemn, weightful composure.
The surviving Ultramarines had put themselves in order.
On their own initiative, they had scrubbed away as much of the battle damage from their armour as they could manage.
They had straightened their backs.
And amid the surrounding deep grey of the Word Bearers, they had formed a vivid, unyielding island of blue.
Far fewer in number, but their formation was crisp and uniform.
The Legion’s discipline and dignity spoke for itself.
At the very front stood Captain Slox, bearing grievous wounds.
The armour was scored with deep claw marks and the burns of energy weapons.
One pauldron was nearly shattered entirely, exposing the mending flesh and mechanical sub-structure beneath.
Yet Captain Slox had refused the medicae pod.
Steadied by two warriors at either side, the captain held position to receive a gene-father, a Primarch, with the utmost solemnity.
The transport’s hatch opened with a soft hiss of hydraulics.
A breath of filtered air came through, carrying faint traces of machine oil and ozone.
Then a figure stepped out.
Roboute Guilliman, Lord of Macragge, Primarch of the Ultramarines, set foot upon the deck of the Hundred Battles Return.
The gaze fell immediately on that formation of blue, and on the gravely wounded figure at its head.
Captain Slox.
For a moment, something passed through those eyes.
Brief, almost imperceptible.
A flash of pained sorrow.
Then it was gone, replaced by something deeper: a resolve as immovable as a mountain.
These were Guilliman’s warriors.
They had paid a price.
The xenos would pay for what they had done.
Then the gaze moved past them, coming to rest on Lorgar, who stood waiting to one side.
Two Primarchs, against a backdrop of xenos wreckage and human sacrifice, looked upon each other for the first time.
Guilliman’s stride was steady and purposeful.
His voice broke the silence first, calm, direct, carrying the pragmatic register particular to a ruler of Macragge.
“You are my Primarch brother?” The gaze swept over Lorgar swiftly and carefully, like the most precise instrument of measurement.
A gentle smile rose on Lorgar’s face.
The kind that seemed to soothe all who beheld it.
He stepped forward, movement carrying a natural grace and warmth.
“Yes, Guilliman.
Allow me to introduce myself — I am Lorgar Aurelian, Lord of the XVII Legion.” If Guilliman represented scientific reason, then Lorgar represented the sensibility of faith.
And in Lorgar’s estimation, if the Horus Heresy was ever to be guarded against, he would need Guilliman on his side.
The Great Heresy would come regardless.
All he could do was minimize the losses as much as possible.
“My brother — you have my gratitude for the rescue.” Guilliman let out a soft sigh.
It carried grief for the warriors lost, and sincere appreciation for aid given in time.
Accepting help was not something Guilliman was accustomed to.
But this debt was kept close.
At the same time, Lorgar was quietly studying this brother he had never met.
In his eyes, Guilliman was not the embodiment of pure violence like several of the other Primarchs, nor the cold war-machine that was Perturabo.
Guilliman was something else entirely: more like a perfect ruler who had stepped out from classical heroic epics and Utopian philosophy at once.
To Lorgar, Guilliman resembled a young warrior whose frame contained the transcendent power befitting a Primarch, yet that power was bound within a proportion and coordination that approached perfection.
He saw the elegance and wisdom of Macragge’s nobility, a cultivation and bearing rooted in a civilized world, as though what ought to rest in those hands was a codex of law rather than a warhammer.
He saw a scholar’s tranquility and a sovereign’s authority.
An immense potential whose brilliance was held inward, yet left one utterly convinced of the capacity to command the whole and shape what came next.
The features were as handsome as a divine sculpture from ancient Greek or Roman myth.
Lines sharp, proportionate, and flawless, every contour seemingly crafted by deliberate design, a union of strength and beauty, of intellect and courage.
Lorgar couldn’t help the thought that surfaced: this brother was several hundred times more striking than any illustration he had seen in novels in his past life.
Though still marginally less so than himself.
After the brief exchange of pleasantries and assessment, Lorgar came to the point.
His voice resumed the decisiveness of a Legion lord.
“We have already obtained the precise coordinates of their home world from the captives.” He did not elaborate on the specific methods by which those coordinates were extracted.
He didn’t need to.
Beneath that calm tone lay a will to annihilate that was absolute and beyond question.
“We are preparing to bring total destruction down upon them.
You, and your Ultramarines, will you come with us?” The moment the words landed, Guilliman turned.
Almost instantly.
In those blue eyes, the scholar’s tranquility was gone.
What replaced it was cold and cutting, the sharpness belonging to a warrior who had watched sons fall and witnessed xenos desecration.
A fury long accumulated and compressed, now on the verge of release.
Wrapped in reason.
Transmuted into the purest, most efficient determination for retribution.
“Of course, my brother.” No hesitation.
Resolute and decisive.
The voice was steady, but it carried a force like the deep ocean.
A brief pause.
The gaze swept once more over those loyal, battered suits of blue armour, then returned to Lorgar.
Each word came with deliberate weight, as though reading aloud a resolution already written into the codex of fate: “We shall deliver the Emperor’s Wrath precisely upon their heads.” “In the Emperor’s name — let punishment descend.” ➤ Next: Ex!
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