The Primarchs' fleet arrived on Mars precisely on schedule. Within the hallowed halls of the Fabricator-General's forge, Dukel observed as several mechadendrites worked tirelessly to repair the immense figure before him.
Oud Oudia Raskian, the Fabricator-General of Mars, was a towering colossus—far surpassing even the Primarchs in sheer size. He was less a man or a machine and more akin to a mobile fortress of steel and circuitry.
Dukel had been informed that whenever Raskian needed to be moved across great distances, eight colossal cranes were required to facilitate his transit.
It was no surprise, then, that the Fabricator-General had moved to defend the Grand Master of the Inquisition. Of course, it no longer mattered—Dukel had already executed them all before boarding the vessel. The efficiency of the Primarchs was an unrelenting force, and perhaps it was time for him to reflect on whether he was too methodical in comparison.
Even among the Tech-Priests, Dukel had never encountered a Magos as massive as Raskian. Compared to him, both Kohl and Gris were diminutive.
He recalled the intelligence provided by the Archmagi regarding the political landscape of the Adeptus Mechanicus. Though countless doctrines and schisms existed within the Martian Priesthood, the Mechanicus could be broadly divided into three ideological factions from the perspective of the Primarchs:
The Radicals, epitomized by Belisarius Cawl, who advocated for the cautious relaxation of technological constraints and the relentless pursuit of knowledge.
The Neutrals, represented by figures such as Magos Mina and Duolun, who sought progress but prioritized their own survival. They navigated the treacherous political terrain of the Mechanicus, attempting to appease both sides while securing resources for their research. Most among them hailed from modest backgrounds and were forced to constantly seek funding for their projects. This faction comprised the majority of the Mechanicus and was Dukel's primary target for recruitment.
The Conservatives, led by Fabricator-General Raskian, who staunchly upheld the doctrines set by the Omnissiah—the Emperor Himself—ten thousand years ago. To them, deviation from the strictures of ancient knowledge was heresy.
Cawl, of course, had become a faction unto himself, his methods so extreme that he had spurred the formation of an "Anti-Cawl" movement in response.
Mars was a battlefield of ideologies, and Dukel had learned from his intelligence sources that Raskian was, by all accounts, an unremarkable mind among the Archmagi. His knowledge was adequate, his innovations uninspired. Yet, he had attained his lofty position solely by being the embodiment of "orthodoxy."
By championing the sanctity of tradition, Raskian had secured the unwavering support of the Titan Legions and the noble Knight Houses.
But his backing did not end there. The secretive Guardians of the "Dragon of Mars" and other ancient Tech-Priests, as venerable as Kohl, had thrown their weight behind him. It was with their endorsement that this otherwise mediocre Magos had cemented himself as the Fabricator-General of Mars.
Now, however, his conservative doctrines had come into direct conflict with the Primarchs.
From the Primaris Astartes to the upgraded macrocannons on Imperial warships, every innovation was seen by the conservatives as a violation of sacred law.
Against the backdrop of this irreconcilable divide, the question of morality was irrelevant.
"My lords, there is a minor malfunction with my frame. I beg your forgiveness for not offering a proper welcome," Raskian intoned. His voice was respectful, almost servile—far removed from what one might expect from the Fabricator-General of Mars.
In theory, even the Emperor Himself was compelled to heed the Fabricator-General's counsel. In terms of rank, he was not below a Primarch—perhaps even marginally above them in matters of Mechanicus governance.
Yet circumstances dictated humility.
Dukel, the second son of the Imperium, was poised to assume the mantle of Warmaster Supreme. And a Warmaster's power was not merely in his strength—it was in his ability to unify his returning brothers.
In that regard, Dukel had done well. The Primarchs who had resurfaced in this new age had all rallied behind him.
More than that, he had consolidated the institutions of the Imperium with an efficiency that caught even the most powerful off guard, bringing them under his singular command.
At present, the Emperor remained enthroned and immobile.
But Dukel spoke with His will.
Unfortunately, while Dukel's authority was immense, he was not the Emperor Himself. That distinction, however slight, meant that Raskian was unwilling to fully submit.
The Fabricator-General represented both the conservative ideology and the "orthodoxy" of the Mechanicus. From both a practical and ideological standpoint, he could not—would not—yield.
Dukel regarded the massive figure before him in silence for twenty-two seconds before shaking his head slightly and turning to the Regent of the Imperium.
"Guilliman, have you observed the nature of this malfunction?"
Guilliman nodded. "Sabotage. Minor damage. Recently inflicted."
The Primarchs were masters of many disciplines. Though their expertise in mechanics did not rival that of the Tech-Priests, they were not so easily deceived.
Even Guilliman did not believe Raskian's claim.
The two Primarchs understood the Fabricator-General's stance all too well.
Yet, in deference to the Emperor's mercy, Dukel extended one final offer.
"Raskian, I will be blunt. We serve the will of the Emperor. We embark on the Second Great Crusade to restore the Imperium to the golden age of ten millennia past. Will the Adeptus Mechanicus stand with us?"
The Fabricator-General's enormous form emitted a shrill burst of static, his voice emerging from the vox-amplifiers.
"Lord Dukel, the Mechanicus has made unparalleled strides in technological advancement. We have begun restoring corrupted STC templates. The forges under our dominion produce some of the highest tithes in the Imperium."
A non-answer.
Dukel's smile was slight. "So you refuse?"
The Fabricator-General's frame trembled, as if suffering a greater malfunction. His voice, strained and distorted, finally responded: "My lord, I had already issued the order for full support before this 'malfunction' occurred."
The smile on Dukel's face widened.
Guilliman sighed.
Even he could see through the deception.
Prior communications with Mars had already revealed their reluctance. Raskian's performance now merely confirmed it.
"Raskian," Guilliman stated coldly, "the former Grand Master of the Inquisition and the Grand Marshal of the Adeptus Arbites were judged heretics. You were among their closest allies, yet you never exposed their corruption. That is highly suspect."
Dukel had not spoken these words—Guilliman had. It was clear that the Regent was attempting to mirror his brother's methods, though he lacked the ruthless finesse.
If it had been Dukel, the accusation would have already been set in stone.
Guilliman, however, still sought to offer the Fabricator-General a way out.
Raskian's optics flickered with shock. He understood the gravity of the situation. The Inquisition and the Arbites had certainly committed questionable acts, but they were loyal to the Imperium.
Yet Dukel had denounced them without hesitation.
And now Guilliman was following suit?
The vast forge-hall shuddered as hundreds of status-runes flared across Raskian's titanic frame.
"Lord Dukel, Regent Guilliman—I am the Fabricator-General of Mars!"
Dukel met his gaze with calm finality.
"And who says that the Fabricator-General cannot be a heretic? I can smell the stench of Chaos on you. It explains much. Why else would such a 'minor malfunction' take so long to repair?"
Raskian was stunned. "Dukel, are you insane?! You would accuse me of treachery? On Mount Olympus, your father and my predecessors forged an eternal pact. The 'Martian Covenant' has bound the Imperium and the Mechanicus for ten millennia."
"And now you seek to betray that covenant? To violate the sovereignty of Mars? Do you understand what that means? Terra and Mars—Imperium and Mechanicus—the two-headed Aquila that has endured unbroken for ten thousand years would be torn apart because of you!"
Dukel remained impassive.
He felt nothing—if anything, he found it amusing.
The hypocrisy was laughable. Not long after the Emperor signed the covenant, He himself had begun interfering with the sovereignty of the Mechanicus. He had dictated the limits of their knowledge, classifying entire fields of study as forbidden.
The orthodox factions on Mars had naturally opposed these restrictions, but the Emperor imposed compliance through execution. Their resentment festered, and during the Horus Heresy, it ignited into open defiance. The radicals were purged, and the conservatives assumed dominance.
Now, this conservative Fabricator-General presumed to lecture Dukel about interference?
The Martian Covenant, once a tool of subjugation, had now become the Mechanicus' shield against Imperial oversight.
Raskian, like many in the Imperium, believed that the covenant was unassailable. That while Dukel had been bold enough to purge the Inquisition and other power structures, he would not dare challenge Mars.
They had forgotten.
The Emperor had bled the Mechanicus first. The Primarchs had followed suit. And now, the son would walk the same path as his father.
The smile faded from Dukel's face, replaced by an expression as cold as the void. A wave of murderous intent settled over the room, suffocating and glacial.
"Scrap metal, let me remind you of something," Dukel said evenly. "The Mechanicus is not united. Even if I kill you now, the Imperium will not fracture. No one will rise to avenge you—not in the short term, at least."
Steam hissed from Raskian's bionics, rising in furious plumes. "You wouldn't dare. If you strike me down, the noble houses across the galaxy will rise against you! No matter how much power you wield, you are not the Emperor! You rule in His name, but the nobility will unite in His name to overthrow you. War will engulf the Imperium because of your hubris!"
Dukel chuckled. "And you believe that if I spare you, they will grant me mercy?"
There was an irreconcilable divide between the Primarchs and the nobility.
They spoke different languages—one of power, the other of lineage.
Since negotiation was impossible, the only dialogue left was the roar of bolters.
Dukel had seized control of Terra with brutal efficiency, but that did not mean every power in the Million Worlds had bent the knee. Many had simply gone into hiding, waiting for the moment to strike.
By eliminating the Fabricator-General, he would force them into the open.
Raskian's death would not be a catastrophe.
It would be an opportunity.
"Raskian, the Regent and I gave you a chance," Dukel said, shaking his head. "But you remain obstinate. You place your faith in a treaty rather than the future of humanity."
A sigh. "I've killed too many already. One more makes no difference to me. But you—Raskian—you only have one life. Why squander it?"
"Dukel, you overestimate yourself!" Raskian growled. "You think you can reshape the Imperium by sheer will alone? You are a fool! The Mechanicus is not as weak as you believe! The reclusive Sages of Mars, the Legio Cybernetica, the Dragon Knights of Olympus Mons—they all stand with me! Even your own father swore the Martian Covenant! If you defy it, there will be no place for you in this Imperium! Your grand crusade is nothing more than a delusion!"
Dukel bowed slightly, offering the Skyhawk Salute.
For a fleeting moment, Raskian felt relief.
Yes. No matter how radical Dukel's ambitions, he would not dare violate the Martian Covenant. He would not defy his father's oath.
Then he saw it.
Guilliman, blade drawn.
Golden fire licked along the Emperor's Sword, its radiance illuminating the chamber.
The Regent's expression was firm—resolute.
He had fought ceaselessly since his return, carrying the burden of the Imperium's salvation. He would not allow Dukel to bear this sin alone.
If a son of the Emperor must violate His oath today, then let it be Guilliman.
Better that he shoulder this dishonor than his brother.
"Guilliman, what are you doing?!" Raskian roared. He had quelled Dukel, but the Regent had now drawn steel.
"You think this will intimidate me?!"
A thunderclap.
Raskian's massive, cybernetic frame exploded in an instant. Flesh, metal, soul—all annihilated.
Guilliman's sword had barely begun to rise.
He turned, stunned, to Dukel.
The young Primarch was still holding his salute, standing before the Fabricator-General's remains.
"Raskian," Dukel murmured, "I do not hate you. I pity you."
His voice was quiet. Almost mournful.
"You were born too late to witness the glory of the Great Crusade. Too soon to see the dawn of mankind's rebirth. You existed in the twilight of stagnation—neither visionary nor pioneer, only another relic of a dying age."
A pause. Then:
"Humanity will ascend, and blood will pave the way. Your sacrifice will not be in vain. Those who come after you will walk upon your corpse toward the future."
Dukel had always believed that the Imperium could not be reforged without sacrifice.
So he had acted without hesitation.
If one man's blood could prevent oceans of it from being spilled, then that was a price worth paying.
Guilliman still held his sword aloft, staring in disbelief.
Dukel had moved too fast.
Even he had been unable to react.
Guilliman exhaled, his expression a mix of helplessness and resignation.
"Dukel… could you not have given me the chance to take responsibility?"
He had steeled himself to bear the burden of this act, ready to shield his brother from the consequences. But in the end, he had been too slow.
It wasn't entirely his fault. Guilliman, shaped by the disciplined rule of Macragge, had always acted with deliberate precision, governed by law and order. Even after years at Dukel's side, he struggled to match his brother's ruthless decisiveness.
Guilliman was a Primarch who valued order above all.
That was not to say he lacked the fury of his kind—far from it. But it was a rage tempered by principle, made all the more remarkable for the restraint he imposed upon himself.
When Guilliman had first unified Macragge, his adoptive father, Konor, had been slain by the treacherous Archon Garlan. Even as he lay dying, Konor had used his final moments to urge Guilliman to master his anger, to uphold the rule of law, not surrender to vengeance.
When the time came to punish Garlan, Guilliman had been consumed with a fury beyond words. And yet, he had not let wrath dictate his actions. Instead of striking the man down in a fit of rage, he had ensured justice was served through proper judgment and execution.
Now, standing here, faced with the corpse of the Chief Fabricator, Guilliman realized how much this moment tested him.
To kill a ranking member of the Mechanicus—outside the strictures of war or law—was an act that defied everything he had once believed in.
The fact that he had even drawn the Emperor's Sword showed just how much he had already compromised. But to strike the killing blow as effortlessly as Dukel had?
That, he could not yet bring himself to do.
So when he saw that Dukel had already acted, Guilliman felt a twinge of guilt.
"Brother," he said, voice heavy with meaning, "I know you did this so that I wouldn't have to."
A rare warmth filled his heart. They were bonded by blood, forged for war, but beyond that—they truly cared for one another.
That made it all the more profound.
For one as bound to order as Guilliman, kindness was something he never forgot.
"Whatever consequences may come, I will bear them with you. I swear it," Guilliman vowed solemnly.
Dukel scoffed.
"Consequences? What consequences?" He shook his head, his tone edged with exasperation. "Brother, if you'd just focus your thoughts instead of overanalyzing everything like the Lion always tells you, maybe you'd be a better warrior."
Guilliman opened his mouth to retort, but Dukel continued.
"It's just the purging of a heretic. Nothing more. We don't need rewards—loyalty is its own reward. And as for guilt? There is none."