Imperial Calendar: Year 0058, May 30.
Location: Prime-Universe Earth · Imperial Palace · Ruins Core District.
As the undisputed "heart" and nexus of the Human Empire, the prime universe's Earth long ago surpassed the limits of Old Humanity's imagination in scale and splendor.
In the Ruins Core District where the Imperial Palace stands, that grandeur reaches its zenith.
Once a swath of untouched rainforest, it is now the absolute core that links ten thousand stars and rules boundless dominions.
Most awe-inspiring are the twenty giant space gates—now stably in operation—each a perfect square six kilometers on a side.
Like twenty vast, flawless mercury mirrors, their faces churn with energy vortices that open onto every known colonial universe of the Empire, frontline bastions, and resource worlds.
Countless standardized guideways, like precise silver veins, bind these gates tightly to large hub stations scattered across the surface and in geosynchronous orbit.
The hubs themselves are metal cities adrift in the starry dark, swallowing and disgorging immeasurable tides of people and cargo, day and night.
Everywhere ships of every form—
from mountain-massive, thick-armored Imperial Navy and Legion warships, to giant freighters that carry goods, to sleek interstellar liners for passengers—
move in ordered schools as if by a cosmic law, passing in and out of the gates and composing a living tableau of star-faring might and order.
Earth, prime among the universes, is the most central node in that vast network—a source from which the Empire's lifeblood gathers and flows.
And on the planetary surface, the sprawling, undulating complex of the Imperial Palace stands as the emblem of that heartland.
Today, the broad precincts around the palace were especially lively. Great numbers of citizens, with families in tow, poured into this place that is ordinarily a tightly guarded forbidden zone.
Children's laughter mingled with tourists' exclamations.
Plainly, this was some kind of "Open Day" at the Imperial Palace.
On this day, ordinary citizens—by prior appointment and strict security—may enter designated sections of the outer palace to feel the Empire's majesty and glory up close, and admire architecture and monuments that fuse the essence of every great civilization in human history.
To ensure absolute safety and smooth flow on Open Day, many Custodian guards and Salamanders Legion Astartes took on security and crowd management.
Custodians in black-and-gold power armor stood like golden statues at key nodes and entrances to core buildings, the cold "gaze" of their helm sensors sweeping the crowds—a pressure enough to choke any ill intent.
The Salamanders, renowned in dark‑green armor for steadfastness and reliability, moved more among the people—patiently guiding visitors and handling incidents—their steady forms a great comfort to all.
Their presence kept the Open Day warm yet orderly, and shut down every chance of accident.
In stark contrast to the bustle below, a large Imperial internal banquet was underway on a high terrace of the palace proper.
The view from here was superb—looking down over the throng, and outward to the twenty gates like portals of heaven.
Those attending represented officials from different universes and sectors, decorated commanders, top scholars in many fields, and figures from all walks who had rendered outstanding service.
Dressed with propriety, they gathered in twos and threes, talking low—solemn and at ease.
Wine and cuisine flowed in luxurious measure—covering nearly all known delicacies across the Empire's domains.
Serving on site were elves from Tyrella—without exception.
These elven servers, all of them—men and women—were beautiful at the limits of human aesthetics: pointed ears, emerald eyes, and a natural grace and calm in their bearing.
With trays of drinks and hors d'oeuvres, they slipped among guests like butterflies—silent, precise, efficient.
Look closely and you'd notice that, beyond standard courtesies, these striking servers sometimes whispered a reminder:
"Please take as needed; cherish your food and avoid waste."
Or, "Sir, this portion is quite large. We suggest you sample first. If you'd like more, simply tell us at any time."
This was no empty set piece.
Though at the Empire's current level of resources and technology material wealth is near boundless, from top to bottom the Empire has tirelessly promoted the virtue of frugality.
In Imperial education and public opinion, a habit of waste is not only a disrespect for labor—it corrodes character and weakens a civilization's grit.
More to the point, in Imperial law, ostentatious extravagance that reaches a certain degree—especially in public and at official events—does touch the statutes and earns due sanction.
That ethic is now deep-rooted across the Empire.
"Ha—ha—ha—ha! Come on, brother! Drink! Long time no see! Have more!!!"
A laugh—piercing, overflowing with unhidden exuberance and warmth—suddenly broke from one corner of the hall and shattered the relative hush.
Turning to it revealed a giant over five and a half meters tall—whose mountain-strength physique showed even under loose, comfortable casuals. It was the Primarch Leman Russ.
With his left arm, he "affectionately," but firmly, slung it around another Primarch—
Fulgrim's shoulders.
In total contrast to Russ's wild, rugged vigor, Fulgrim also wore casuals—but cut and cloth were plainly finer—perfectly fitted to a form that might be called flawless.
He was breathtakingly handsome, his long silver hair falling on his shoulders like liquid moonlight. Even here among the elite, Fulgrim was an undeniable focus of eyes—especially those of many a woman—drawn with discreet admiration.
At the moment, forcibly slung under Russ's arm, Fulgrim wore a touch of helplessness—but a smile he could not truly refuse. In his hand, someone had stuffed a goblet that clashed with his debonair air.
"Leman, mind the setting."
A voice—calmer, but with no less force—sounded alongside.
Angron had spoken.
He too was handsome, but in a more inward and placid way; a hint of distant thought seemed always to rest between his brows.
He patted Russ's knotted back and murmured:
"Watch it. We Primarchs should keep our image. This isn't quite it."
At that, Russ didn't shrink, but pulled up straight and tried for "proper," which—paired with his freewheeling nature—only made it comical.
Grinning, he said, "Angron, my brother! You're too stiff! In my sector, what my people love most is me being true to myself!
If I kept a straight face all day—like you and Fulgron over here—that's how you lose the approval rating! Loosen up! Get it? That's the wolf cubs' style!"
And he clapped Fulgrim's back again—nearly making the prince of perfection choke.
"."
Angron and Fulgrim traded a look and saw the same resignation in the other—and a trace of indulgence for their brother's unique ways.
Angron shook his head and let it be,
while Fulgrim smoothed the clothes Russ had rumpled, lifted his cup, and showed a flawless smile with a hint of forbearance.
This banquet on the palace's high terrace meant far more than usual.
It was not just a gathering of Imperial elites. It was a rare event—every Primarch together beneath one sky.
The Emperor's sons—scattered across the star-sea and set over their parts or Legions—were all present today.
Beyond the carousing Russ, the slightly put-upon Fulgrim, and the equable Angron, the other Primarchs each formed a center of gravity.
At the hall's core, Roboute Guilliman, Sanguinius, Lion El'Jonson, Horus, and Magnus the Red stood surrounded by layers of high officials and decorated generals.
They were lodestones—drawing looks of reverence, awe, and networking intent.
Polished courtesies, speeches of respect, and toasts flowed without end—demanding their every grace.
Guilliman—by his excellence in administration and strategic foresight—was already an object of esteem across the civil service and many Legions. He spoke with poise to each who approached—precise in word—perfect in manner.
Sanguinius—by his near-perfect character, power of the mind, and godlike beauty—won pure-hearted love from nearly everyone who met him. A light seemed to shine of its own around him, and those who spoke with him unconsciously took a hint of devotion in their tone.
The Lion's gravity and knightly air, Horus's matchless command presence, and Magnus's wisdom and erudition—all made them figures impossible to ignore.
They were, without the Emperor, the most revered Primarchs within the Empire.
And that respect stems not only from their deeds, but from a shared upbringing.
Just then, a woman in formal dress approached that central circle. At her coming, the press around the Primarchs opened of itself, and eyes turned with extraordinary respect.
She was Alexia Ashford.
The woman whose foundational contributions had underpinned Imperial biology—and who had raised Guilliman, Sanguinius, the Lion, Horus, Magnus, and others as "mother"—and one of the Emperor's indispensable right hands.
Today she wore a daring yet elegant backless black gown. Smooth silk traced a figure kept near perfection by cutting-edge biotech.
Time seemed to favor her. Though her real years were not few, her face, bearing, and shape held a startling youth—
thanks in part to her own great prowess in the biological arts, but even more to a life force still brilliant after every storm.
Seeing her near, the Primarchs who had only just managed the tide of toasts and greetings shifted in a small but unified way.
Almost as one they straightened slightly; their expressions softened; their eyes held a respect beyond the ordinary.
"Mother."
Guilliman spoke first—his voice unusually gentle.
Sanguinius stepped forward and, with perfect ease, offered the lightest steadying touch to Alexia's arm—careful and kind.
The Lion, Horus, and Magnus each nodded—proper and deferent.
Alexia looked on these towering sons—children in her eyes still—with a gaze full of love and a pride hard to see but surely there.
She spoke softly—likely a reminder to watch their health, not to overwork—or perhaps the usual counsel about brotherly peace.
They had heard those words countless times—and could almost predict the next sentence.
Yet in that moment they showed no least impatience. Each bent slightly to listen, faces content, receiving it with ease.
For to Alexia—or to any parent—no matter how tall the child grows, no matter what brilliant deeds he achieves, he is always the one to be cared for and counseled.
Elsewhere, the air was different.
Corax, Mortarion, and Perturabo stood around another woman.
Their demeanor, as when Guilliman and the others faced Alexia, held closeness and filial warmth—but with a deeper current—a mix of gratitude and heartfelt awe.
She, at their center, was Queen Tinas Losrian of the elves.
She was their mother—whose elven patience, care, and endless gentleness filled any hollow in their childhoods, and whose love and wisdom—born of another culture—nourished their growth.
The queen wore a sky-blue gown like the weave of starlight and deep sea, its silver runes fine like flowing light.
Her silver hair—like moonbeams—was expertly coiled and set with ancient, noble gold.
Those pieces were not mere ornaments—each seemed to hold an old power and storied past.
Her bearing was ethereal and high—beauty beyond race—a perfection laid down over ages that seemed almost untouched by dust. Her unmatched grace overshadowed every woman present—few dared meet her gaze.
Corax's silence grew gentle before her. Mortarion's solitude softened. Even Perturabo's habitual severity showed a hard-to-spot stir.
They listened in quiet to the queen's undertone—concern for their present state, or counsel from elven ancient wisdom.
On another side, Sui Meng did not cluster with his brothers. He escorted his mother, the war goddess Athena.
With them walked the goddess Hera—patron of hearth and marriage—as they moved through the banquet.
They received the Imperial high in turn—exchanging necessary formalities.
Athena's godlike edge and severity, and Hera's matronly poise and measure, formed a sight of their own at Sui Meng's side.
The youngest Primarch—Chaghatai—was now grown as well.
He cut a martial figure, with thick black hair tied back into a neat ponytail—crisp and free.
He wore a tailored white uniform that met the formality of the banquet, yet held his style.
He too did not go alone. He followed Halsey—also turned out in finery—into the quadrant where Leman Russ, Fulgrim, and Angron stood.
Halsey kept that same "foxlike" smile and all-seeing glint. Her eyes flicked to the stack of empty plates and oversized goblets at Russ's table, and she offered a perfectly impolite tease:
"Whoa~~ it seems our Wolf King's appetite is still as remarkable as his voice—decades on and not a bit changed."
At the jab, Russ didn't bristle. He laughed huge: "Doctor! It's a celebration! If you don't eat and drink, how do you honor a rare reunion! Come—Doctor! A toast to you!"
Chaghatai stood at Halsey's side, inclined his head with a smile to the elder brothers, and watched the warm, smoky exchange among them.
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