Rumble—
Amid solemn, soaring hymnals, a machine tens of meters long slammed into the ground. Unfolding, it became a throne-like dais.
Golden filigree etched its surfaces, epic reliefs gleamed along its flanks, and sculpted seraphs with pure white wings stood in silent guard.
Banners of honor rose; an angelic cherubim machine-choir wheeled above as petals drifted down.
Hololithic projectors cast countless images in the air, broadcasting to all present the great deeds of the Savior Primarch—the Emperor of the Imperium.
The sacred spectacle seized every eye.
"Great Savior…"
Haraga and the other Imperial mortals gazed up with deeper reverence at the Savior's aerial holo.
Each redemptive legend fed their piety—and their excitement.
There was no doubt now: someone hallowed from Holy Terra—an august sovereign—had arrived. Suffering Avalons was saved at last, and perhaps its guardians would be spared!
"When did the Imperium gain a new Primarch—and crown him Emperor of the Imperium?"
Avka and the other Fallen stared at the Savior's holo—stunned, disbelieving.
They were veterans of millennia, some had marched under the First Primarch or even during the Great Crusade, and yet they had never heard of such a Primarch. It beggared belief.
"How can this be? The Emperor's own coronation—the Emperor naming a Savior to be Emperor?"
Belial, Master of the Deathwing, felt his pupils contract. Calm slipped from his face, replaced by raw incredulity.
Overhead, a recording played:
In coruscating gold, the Emperor set a crown upon the Savior's brow, lifted his arm high, and stood at his side—declaring with his own voice that the Savior would henceforth reign as Emperor of the Imperium.
The scene was, of course, re-edited—with tasteful effects and score—and, for decorum, armor had been composited over the Savior's once-bare, explosively well-built torso.
Even so, such sanctity invited wonder—and a streak of doubt.
That much was inevitable. The Dark Angels, the Fallen, and others on the Imperium's dark side still lived with memories from before the Cicatrix Maledictum, some as far back as the centuries after the Horus Heresy.
In their minds, the Emperor alone was Emperor—enthroned upon the Golden Throne, guarding and ruling quadrillions.
Now a "Savior Primarch" had appeared, telling them the Emperor had risen—and there was a new Emperor.
The shock was like courtiers being told, overnight, that the old dynasty had fallen.
Then more trails of fire speared the sky.
Teleport-beacon lances knifed upward; the air shivered; the earth began to quake.
Thoom—thoom—thoom!
Gargantuan machine-feet stamped down, mountains of gold walking—Titan god-machines rose into view, their awe like a tidal bore.
"By the Emperor!"
Mortals shook uncontrollably just to look upon them. Even Dark Angels and Fallen felt their eyes widen.
Never had they seen so many Titans appear at once—even those who had fought the Great Crusade or the Heresy.
Five Emperor-class Titans, eight Warlord-class Titans, and two arrays of thirteen Warhound-class each—together, a colossal Titan Legion.
Bannered, sacred war-colossi formed a sweeping fan behind the dais, a range of living iron that pressed upon the lungs.
These Titans were part of the Savior's Ceremonial Guard—rarely fielded in full.
But surface auguries on Avalons had detected a high-risk Warp-rift on the verge of eruption, so an entire Titan Legion had been assigned as honor guard—
to keep the Savior safe.
And the god-machines served another purpose: living credentials and instruments of deterrence.
Rank demands regalia. The high wear finery and ride in expense to show their station.
These Titans were the Savior's gilded motorcade.
Say you are the Savior, the Emperor of the Imperium, and some will doubt.
Arrive with a super-luxe motorcade of Titans, and belief comes easier.
The Titans' grim muzzles and crushing aura sobered the Dark Angels at once.
Respect kindled in their eyes.
Even Belial shifted posture, coming to rigid attention.
"It would seem the Imperium's order has… changed."
He was prepared to admit the visitor was a power of the Imperium—but not to bring the First Legion to heel.
Whoosh—
All eyes lifted as a landing craft, hundreds of meters long, came down, its gale of dust drumming against armor in staccato bursts.
Multiple ramps lowered. The central ramp met the dais; ranks upon ranks of towering warriors marched from the side hatches.
Belial stiffened.
Custodians—row on row of Custodians.
Taller even than Astartes, armored in baroque gold, red cloaks billowing, signature master-wrought weapons in hand—there could be no mistaking them.
Short of the Emperor's own processions, who else could assemble such a display?
Belial swallowed. The perfectionist Master of the Deathwing felt the scales begin to tip. Perhaps the Imperium did have a new Emperor.
From the central hatch strode a warrior of some two meters eighty, taking the stair to the dais.
Once the High Commander of the Thunder Warriors—Carter—now clad in Custodian plate, he looked down on all assembled.
The Thunder Warriors' former order had been dissolved—its remnant folded into the Custodes, amalgamated into a single corps.
It left the Savior with firmer command of the Custodes—an essential change. To rule the Imperium, one must hold supreme force as well as authority.
Carter now stood as one of the Custodes' newly installed Marshals.
Unlike the Marshal who held the Palace, he stayed at the Savior's side—and by degrees, his power had grown.
Carter took in the kneeling masses and the Dark Angels still on their feet—and frowned.
He drew his blade and pointed, just so.
"Everyone kneel and pay homage to your supreme Emperor."
Belial and the Dark Angels hesitated. They knelt to no one but the Emperor and the Lion.
As for the Custodes—unless they bore the Emperor's own writ—the Custodes had no standing to command the Dark Angels at all.
The First Legion were warlords of their own demesnes. Only the Emperor—or their gene-sire—could command their hearts.
And now a Custodian bade them kneel to a stranger, this "Savior," this "Emperor"?
While the Dark Angels hesitated, the Custodes were already in motion—preternaturally fast.
Captain-General Tilis advanced with several Aquila-pattern Terminators, stopping before the Master of the Deathwing. She inclined her head the slightest degree.
"Kneel."
No speeches. No room to argue. One hand settled on his pauldron.
Belial breathed deep as the iron mountain of Titans loomed behind her and did not so much as twitch to resist.
His body yielded to the Captain-General's pressure, sinking to one knee.
A posture of fealty.
Seeing their Master kneel, the Dark Angels exhaled and followed him to the ground.
The Custodes knelt in ordered ranks as well. No one stood now—a black-and-gold sea of bowed heads.
The Captain-General gave a final nod and bent to invite the great Savior Primarch—the Emperor of the Imperium—to descend.
The hymnals swelled to their zenith. Cherubim scattered fresh petals.
Eden emerged at the threshold—tall, commanding—walking the flowered path onto the dais, flanked by white-robed pages.
In truth, he disliked such baroque ceremonies—but they were necessary.
Only thus could sacred awe be fixed in hearts.
So, on each world the Savior set foot upon, the rite was enacted—and its effect was excellent.
Whumm—
As Eden crossed the lip, a sacred ash-charge blossomed above the dais—and a holy sun opened in the sky, drowning the harsh desert light.
"Th—the Emperor?!"
Belial, Avka, and the rest stared up at the golden warrior on the dais, voices trembling, eyes filling with awe.
Around them, others bowed lower still.
Eden wore the Emperor's Sword at his side, and a master-wrought, immaculate facsimile of the Golden armor. In the light of that sacred sun, he looked like the Golden Giant himself—one-to-one, inviolate.
The only difference was that he was handsomer.
When the sacred sun faded, they saw his face—a young Primarch with black hair and eyes, handsome and heavy with majesty.
None dared slight him now. All waited in utter silence.
Eden surveyed the kneeling host and, unlike other times, did not bid them rise.
He needed the weight of this moment to stay.
His gaze came to rest on Belial and on Avka at his side. He spoke softly.
"I have come to save Avalons—to save this world—and to end a feud of ten millennia… a tragedy sown by the deceits of Chaos."
He raised his hand, just so.
Custodians moved at once, freeing the bound Fallen and injecting potent medicae panaceas into the worst wounded.
Then they drew them gently to their feet.
"By the Emperor…"
Avka and the rest looked from the Custodes to the Savior on the dais, dazed as if waking.
They were spared. The new Emperor of the Imperium was shielding them.
The Dark Angels remained kneeling, unrest prickling at their ranks—but none dared rise.
"Savior… Your Majesty."
Belial could not help but speak; under that sovereign gaze, he bowed deeper without willing it.
He knew he could not gainsay this being.
Yet the Lion's stubborn son still tried to frame his mind. "Do you mean to free these traitors—and take them from the Dark Angels' custody?"
"Yes. I will free all Fallen. Do you object?"
Eden's glance slid over the Lion's son, and there was the faintest edge that brooked no dissent.
"I lack the warrant to release these traitors in the Legion's name."
Belial swallowed. His tone softened. "Our fortress-monastery, the Rock, is nearly arrived. Perhaps, then, you might speak with the Supreme Grand Master."
Delay. He wanted the Rock close—a voice of higher weight for the Dark Angels' case.
He would obey the Savior's strategic command. But on the matter of traitors—of patricides—the Master of the Deathwing would not bend.
"Oh?"
Eden's face did not change; his eyes warmed in secret pleasure.
Good fortune indeed.
He had wanted the Rock—he meant to lift out the Tuchulcha engine and marry it to the Old Ones' megastructure—the Anacrusis Engine.
The first phase of the Redemption Crusade was all but complete.
His armies had fought tens of thousands of battles, delivered tens of thousands of worlds. Soon he, Guilliman, and the Khan would rally at the next great nexus.
Beyond that lay deeper dark—and he needed the Anacrusis Engine to blaze a highway through the web of void arteries yet ahead.
"One day, I'll drive the Anacrusis Engine straight into the Dark Gods' lairs—and rip out their back doors."
So Eden thought.
Chaos realms have their substance. With weapons of enough power, they break. The Garden of Nurgle had learned this, to its cost—holy pyr fired by the Emperor, and the Godplague. That realm had not yet mended.
The Anacrusis Engine could be his greatest prize after the webway.
To make a webway of one's own—who could fathom the profit? His spear-tip would go anywhere—whenever he wished.
While Eden pondered, silence deepened. All waited for the Emperor's answer.
A sheen of sweat touched Belial's brow.
He did not know this Savior's temper and feared his stubbornness would bring down wrath upon the Dark Angels.
Then the Savior smiled.
"That is a fine suggestion. Give us the Rock's secure vox sequence. My comms will help you open a line—and bid them hasten."
Eden descended a few steps, maintaining the aura—but his voice gentled like spring rain.
Here, in the Imperium's shadowed half, the Warp-rift snarled comms. Even local channels struggled.
Only the Dreamweaver's grand communications engines, buttressed by the Omnissiah's graces, could reach far—
better than astrotelepathy, faster, clearer.
The Savior's measured tone let Belial breathe again. He recited the Rock's secret sequence.
He wanted the fortress-monastery here as well—one of the most formidable bastions in the Imperium.
And then he regretted it.
Out beyond the horizon, ships translated in—squadrons upon squadrons, clouding the stars.
Belial had never seen so many warships in one sky.
It was the Emperor's fleet—far beyond his fears. No fortress-monastery could stand against so vast an armada.
"Good. Now—we will settle the matter of the Fallen."
Eden patted the Deathwing Master's stiff pauldron, still smiling. "No need to tense. I am here to reconcile, not to rend."
Vmm—
He loosed his mind, and thought became light—visions sliding like oracles into the minds of Fallen and Dark Angels alike.
Psykers skimming thoughts, planting impressions—such things were known.
But his touch went deeper, higher—god-clear.
In an instant, Belial, Avka, and many others of both circles saw: the root of Caliban's disaster, the first hands stained, the cascade of consequences; confirmations from the Emperor himself; even the Lion's last clash with Luther.
Chaos had seeded and fanned the tragedy.
When the visions broke, Belial and Avka were streaming tears—lost for what to do.
Especially the Inner Circle. Many among them had not lived that age, but from the moment they entered the Circle, their catechism had one iron aim—hunt the Fallen until death.
It was the only meaning they were given.
They had pursued for centuries upon centuries, and killed with their own hands—only to learn it had been a mistake?
They had slain loyal blood-brothers.
"No…"
The Master of the Deathwing closed his eyes in pain, seeing again those he had executed in the Rock's cells.
Others among the Dark Angels wavered as well.
Then the Savior's holy mind-fire washed them—cooling, steadying—
and kept them from breaking.
"By the Emperor—we have been freed. Our guilt is washed away."
Avka's grief met something like sunrise—release of a weight he had carried for ages.
He felt light for the first time.
The Fallen wept as one. At last they knew that ancient doom had not been theirs.
Their souls vented long-pent storms.
"My lords, by the Emperor's will and mine as Emperor of the Imperium, I declare the Fallen loyal. They will return to the Imperium."
Eden's voice carried.
He looked from Dark Angels to Fallen. "Wanderers—will you rejoin the Dark Angels? And Dark Angels—will you receive them?"
Silence took them. Misunderstanding might be gone, but the slaughter and hate of ten thousand years were real.
Such scars do not close at a word.
The Dark Angels did not know how to accept them; the Fallen did not know how to re-enter the mother Legion that had hunted them since the Fall.
This was the knot no hand could untie—save one of sovereign strength.
Eden turned his eyes to Knight-Officer Avka, all warmth and grave compassion.
"Fallen—perhaps there is a better way.
Keep your structure. Keep your name. Re-form as a new Chapter.
I will grant you a homeworld. Call your roving brothers back. And fight beside the Dark Angels when the time is right.
Will you go to war with me?"
He held out a branch heavy with fruit. These millennial veterans numbered in the thousands—hard steel, every man.
Else how would they have held, in rag-and-bone gear, against trained Dark Angels in multiples of their number?
He meant to arm them at once—to meet what was coming.
He did not speak of the Lion's return; the man had vanished again.
The Rock would be here any moment, and the Tuchulcha engine must be lifted to build the great device. The Redemption Crusade needed it, to liberate the Emperor's children.
Tell the Dark Angels that the Lion had risen, and they might use it to snarl him—to stall the lifting of Tuchulcha until the Lion returned. And who knew when he would stop drifting the Immaterium?
By then, dust would have settled on the table.
So Eden would move fast. Under the weight of awe, he would settle the Fallen's fate and the First's quarrel—and take the engine.
Afterwards, when the Lion returned, they could parley at length. The Fallen would be free to choose—stay or go.
Either way, they were Imperium's warriors. All meat, in one pot.
"The Fallen will heed your counsel, Your Majesty the Savior!"
Avka and the Fallen chose. They sank to one knee and offered honor to the one who had spared their lives and cleansed their shame.
They would found a Chapter, and call their brothers home. It was the right path.
Eden glanced over their wrecked gear—and frowned.
A sweep of his hand. "Treat the wounded. Arm every one of them. Battle will likely find us soon."
If these veterans would fight at his side—
they would fight as kings. They would feel the Savior's warmth in steel and fire.
In the sky, more landing craft came burning down—holds crammed with arms and plate.
"…So. Will it be that one? If only one of my brother Primarchs were here."
Eden turned to the far dark and sighed.
He was thinking of the unknown, dreadful foe.
The Rift could tear open at any instant. And what would come screaming out…
(End of Chapter)
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