After its transformation, the Thunderhawk Eagle accelerated rapidly, slipping seamlessly into the outer orbit as it sped toward Dukel's flagship—Soul Fire.
Through the reinforced, crystal-clear viewport, Anna gazed in reverence at the resplendent behemoth suspended in high atmosphere.
Though she had seen it countless times, the sight never lost its power. The towering induction generators, sprawling macro-cannon emplacements, and intricate lattice of defense systems stirred awe in her heart each time.
As the Thunderhawk banked past the primary armament of Soul Fire, Anna's heartbeat quickened. The black barrel loomed—monolithic, many times larger than their entire craft.
This was no ordinary weapon—it was a god-engine of devastation. A single shell could shatter a world.
Heavy power couplings flanked the muzzle, each one the size of an aircraft fuselage—coiled like iron serpents pulsing with restrained force.
As the pilot transmitted a docking request to command, a hangar gate—marked C222—slowly yawned open.
Inside, a multitude of aircraft already occupied the deck. The arrival of the Thunderhawk Eagle went largely unnoticed amid the bustling flow.
The moment the airlock hissed open, Anna leapt out, her boots striking the deck with a sharp clang.
Two Primaris Astartes followed her with steady strides.
"Miss Anna, no offense, but please refrain from such reckless movements," one of them intoned, his voice calm yet commanding. "Your mortal frame is fragile. Even a minor impact aboard a warship can prove lethal."
The Space Marine's gaze lingered on her in concern. If she were harmed under their watch, the Warmaster's wrath would fall upon them with no mercy.
But Anna merely offered a breathless apology, her urgency undeterred. She broke into a jog, quickly vanishing into the bustling hangar corridors as she made for the Warmaster's strategium.
The hangar thrummed with life, just as always. Munitorum loaders rolled through passageways, ferrying heavy crates of ammunition. Giant servo-cranes descended from the ceiling gantries, carefully lifting macro shells and micro-missiles and transferring them to the Titan armament platforms.
The Omnissiah's war machine was never idle.
Rotary cannons the size of buildings, long-range artillery howitzers, and plasma accelerators capable of shifting continental plates stood in rows—silent for now, but primed. Magos and Tech-Priests swarmed over the weapons, tuning parameters, communing with Machine Spirits.
To the Priests of Mars, these were not mere tools of war. They were relics—sacred, powerful, temperamental. Each one had earned its place through blood and fire, and they were tended to with reverence. Calm murmurs, glowing incense, sacred oils. Promises whispered to restless Machine Spirits, that soon, they would roar in holy vengeance once more.
Yet, there was a difference in the hangar today.
It wasn't just the roar of servitors or clank of cargo-drones—there was something else.
A rare thing.
Joy.
Victory still hung in the air like incense. Not long ago, they had achieved a triumph that would echo through the annals of the Imperium. Daemons had been purged. Heretics slain in their tens of thousands. Glory reclaimed.
Hundreds had gathered on the hangar apron and along the corridors. Candles flickered. Hymns were sung in fractured harmony. A small celebration amid steel and smoke.
Even the deck above was crowded. Laughter, rare and raw, danced on the air.
The Sisters of Battle, usually stern and distant, had set aside decorum for a moment, mingling with mortal soldiers. For once, they were not warriors—they were victors.
Anna saw it all—and committed it to memory—but didn't stop.
There were more pressing matters.
She ran the ten kilometers of steel and plasteel that separated the hangar from the command sanctum. To a mortal woman, even one accustomed to hardship, it was a brutal trek.
By the time she reached the strategium, she was drenched in sweat, chest heaving. Still, she forced the heavy door open.
Blinding light greeted her eyes. It took a heartbeat to adjust—and in that instant, she realized she had stepped into a room of giants.
The atmosphere shifted. Every gaze turned toward her. Titans in armor—lords of death, guardians of humanity, legends—watched her enter.
Then, a voice. Warm. Playful. Yet one that bore the weight of empires.
"It seems our little scribe has endured quite the journey."
The massive figure seated at the central throne offered a faint smile.
Dukel.
Warmaster of the Imperium.
Master of every instrument of sanctioned violence.
High Commander of the Black Templars.
Grand Inquisitor of the Ordo Malleus.
Patron Saint of Holy Vengeance.
Champion of the Doom Legion.
Shield of the Throne.
Around him stood legends: the Grand Master of the Grey Knights, Battle-Captains, living saints, and Magos Dominus of the Fabricator-General's inner circle. Each one a paragon of their domain. And all of them revolved around Dukel, as planets around a star.
Anna flushed crimson. Her cheeks, already reddened by the run, now burned from within.
Yet the moment passed—and relief followed.
"My deepest apologies, Warmaster," Anna said, bowing with all the formality of a Terran noble. "I came as swiftly as I could."
"No need to apologize," Dukel replied with a chuckle. "You are not late."
He gestured for her to sit.
"Come, chronicler of the Imperium. You are here as the eyes and ears of mankind. You must remember your purpose: record what transpires—truthfully, without embellishment or fear. Let no emotion or favor sway your hand."
"Yes, my lord."
Anna found her seat without difficulty—it was the only vacant chair in the chamber.
Only after sitting down and drawing a deep breath did she fully register the titanic presence of those assembled in the conference room.
Names that echoed like war hymns across the stars: Vodace, Grand Master of the Grey Knights; Marshal Amaritch of the Black Templars; Fabricator General Gris of Mars; Living Saint Adeline; Doom, Lord of Destruction and Captain of the Doom Legion; Azrael, Supreme Grand Master of the Dark Angels; and Commander Dante, Lord of the Blood Angels.
Each of them was a legend in flesh and ceramite.
Each name was etched into the annals of the Imperium, the ink made from the blood of traitors and heretics.
To have them gathered in one place was nothing short of historic—a council of titans, symbols of mankind's defiance in the long night of the galaxy.
And I... am here to record it all.
Anna's fingers trembled slightly as she moved her data stylus across her slate. But years of discipline steadied her hand. She was no longer the wide-eyed noble's daughter of Terra.
Born to one of Terra's ancient noble houses, Anna had always been different from her peers. Where others sought lavish pleasures or schemed for influence among the High Lords, she devoured archives and walked ancient ruins. She had a hunger for truth, for legacy, for history.
When whispers emerged of the Second Primarch's return, she concealed it from her family, boarded a pilgrim freighter alone, and flung herself into the unknown.
She prayed through the Warp storms. She begged the God-Emperor for the strength to endure, for the chance to behold the divine made manifest.
Her prayers were answered. She arrived on Ophelia VII, joined the Crusade fleet, and worked with unswerving resolve. When the Primarch returned to Terra and was named Warmaster, she was recruited by the Imperial Press Corps and reassigned to the Crusade—this time as an official war correspondent.
Over time, she earned the personal trust of the Warmaster himself—Dukel, son of the Emperor, High Lord Militant, Lord Commander of the Imperium. She alone among the press was granted unfiltered access to him.
Many sought her favor, hoping to curry influence through flattery or wealth. But Anna, raised in nobility, knew the stench of false smiles. She paid them no heed.
It was perhaps that incorruptibility that earned her Dukel's favor.
And now, before her, history prepared to write its next line in blood.
A trial was about to begin.
Not a trial of some obscure officer or wayward priest. No, this was far more dangerous. The accused were giants. The outcome could shake the foundations of the Imperium itself.
The defendants were none other than Saint Efilar, the Warmaster's own seraph and right hand—and Asmodai, Chief Interrogator-Chaplain of the Dark Angels.
Efilar, the silver-haired Living Saint of the Order Argentum, had stood beside the Magos Gris during the resurrection of Primarch Dukel. Since then, she had marched with the Warmaster into the darkest reaches of the galaxy, cleansing stars, banishing daemons, and bearing the light of the Emperor into the abyss.
A Living Saint is a rare and sacred gift. They are the apex of Imperial faith—pure, unbreakable, utterly incorruptible. They are the balm to the broken, scourge to the wicked, hope to the hopeless. Their mere presence on the battlefield is said to ignite courage even in the lowliest Guardsman—turning men into berserkers who charge Khorne's spawn with knives and prayers.
Anna turned her eyes to Efilar.
The Saint sat poised, dignified, calm in her chains. Her silver eyes betrayed no fear. Her porcelain-pale skin was marred by exhaustion and the remnants of blood. Her war-saint armor was cracked in places, stained in others, revealing the plasteel beneath.
Even saints, it seemed, bled.
The endless campaigns had clearly taken their toll. But no matter how glorious her deeds, her past could not exempt her from judgment.
According to Anna's sources, Efilar had launched an unsanctioned strike into a daemon world—coordinates freshly uncovered from the Black Archives—without the Warmaster's approval.
Her recklessness had sparked a chain reaction. The wars that followed had cost lives, fleets, and faith.
How does a saint defend herself against her own sins?
The thought struck Anna unexpectedly.
"Skiritas, Astra Militarum, Astartes Legion... Efilar, under your command were 10.72 million combat personnel. Due to your decisions, the casualty rate reached nearly 40%. Do you have anything to say in your defense?"
Warmaster Dukel's voice was low and steady, yet it landed with the weight of a thunderhead. In front of him, the hololithic board scrolled with stark, damning numbers. Each luminous digit marked the death of a loyal Imperial soldier.
"I accept all judgment. The failure is mine, and the guilt is unforgivable."
Anna's breath caught in her throat. A saint—accepting blame without argument?
It was nearly unheard of. She had covered numerous military tribunals, and without fail, the accused would scramble for excuses. Enemy treachery. Unexpected warp anomalies. Ineptitude from subordinate officers. Never had she seen a commander—let alone a living saint—stand alone and take full responsibility.
But Efilar did. Calm, composed, and unflinching. A true saint of the Silver Sisters, even in disgrace.
What courage, Anna thought.
Dukel's eyes narrowed. "Very well. I will now pronounce judgment."
"Wait, my lord."
The sudden voice came from Asmodai, seated beside the saint. The legendary Chief Interrogator of the Dark Angels looked uncharacteristically anxious. "The failure was mine. I advised the deviation. It was under my urging that the fleet strayed from the Warmaster's instructions."
Dukel raised a hand. The chamber fell silent again.
"Asmodai, I never accused you of defying orders. This trial is not about deviation. You are being judged for one reason: failure."
He stood slowly, his presence towering.
"My duty is to master the stars. The Imperium spans over a million worlds. I understand the burdens of command—facing enemies without and treachery within. The enemy has countless snares, and the whispers of the Warp are constant."
"But difficulty is no excuse. I grant my commanders freedom in the field because they must act. But in return, I demand results. I demand victory."
The Warmaster's words hung heavy in the air, an unspoken decree echoing through the hearts of all present.
"We shall remember your words, Warmaster," said Marshal Amaritch of the Black Templars, rising. One by one, saints, commanders, and generals stood and offered their salute.
Each one of them wielded command over the Imperium's vast forces—millions of lives, ancient technology, and the fate of sectors. Yet before Dukel, they bowed their heads.
He turned again to Efilar.
"As a commander, every defeat of yours costs oceans of blood. You will be punished—and that punishment shall be public. Every citizen, every scholar, every child in every Scholam across the Imperium will know of it."
"You are hereby relieved of command. From this day forward, you shall be confined for a hundred standard years."
A ripple passed through the chamber. Dukel continued unfazed.
"During this time, you will remain within range of my perception. You will not be permitted to leave that radius. If you do, the consequences will be absolute. I will personally ensure you learn what it means to be a commander."
He turned toward Asmodai.
"And you. From this day on, you are stripped of all ranks within the Dark Angels. You will begin again—not as Interrogator, not as Chaplain, but as a lowly interrogation priest in the Crusade's outer legions."
"You will claw your way back from the bottom. You will learn the value of an ordinary life—its brevity, its agony. So that the next time you are tempted by extremism or dogma, you might pause... and remember."
The tribunal was brief. The punishments harsh.
But none dared question the Warmaster aloud.
Whispers would come later. Some would say it was political theater—a show of iron discipline to put fear into corrupt generals. Others would claim Dukel had future plans for the saint and the interrogator, and that this spectacle would grant them quiet time to prepare for greater duties. Still others thought it was meant to reinforce the citizenry's trust in the Crusade.
Speculation spread like wildfire. But all agreed: this verdict would echo across the Imperium for generations.
Only one detail was missed.
No one noticed the faint, flickering emotion in Efilar's silver eyes. Or the almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of Asmodai's mouth.
Relief. And something else. Hope.
...
TN:
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