Efilar and Asmodai accepted their seemingly harsh punishments without resistance. Though to the unknowing eye it may have appeared severe, neither felt despair—instead, a quiet, profound sense of relief settled in their hearts.
The pursuit of sainthood is a path paved with sacrifice and unwavering devotion. For Efilar, being assigned to serve the Warmaster for a century—day and night—was not a punishment. Far from it. To her, such an outcome was a reward beyond measure. She would have gladly traded her command, her autonomy, even her life, for the chance to remain at Dukel's side.
As for Asmodai, he had long since known that, regardless of the war's outcome, he would not be welcomed back with open arms by the Dark Angels.
Though he had begun to understand the mind of the Lion in the crucible of war, the rift between him and Lion El'Jonson had not closed. In the Chapter, he still retained his rank and honors, but in truth, he had been quietly exiled—pushed into a forgotten corner of the First Legion.
Now, the Warmaster had stripped him of those duties and titles. To others, it was disgrace. To Asmodai, it was liberation. He was free from the attic where the Lion had locked him away—free to return to the battlefield, to what he loved most: hunting traitors, purging heretics, and hearing the screams of the damned.
Glancing at Efilar, he noted the saint's expression—serene joy, unhidden and unashamed.
Only then did he fully understand.
From the very start, as Efilar had said before the war began, everything had been under the Warmaster's control.
Even their "punishment" had been preordained, a calculated maneuver by Dukel. Win or lose, he would reward them—not through commendations, but through the redirection of their roles to fulfill their deepest desires.
Beneath the facade of reprimand was a gift.
And the Warmaster's intentions extended far beyond the two of them.
Asmodai looked around the chamber. The expressions of the gathered lords and generals—those who held true power across the galaxy—were anything but composed. Some were solemn, others contemplative. All were reflecting deeply.
From their reactions alone, Asmodai could already imagine the storm that would sweep through the Imperium once this trial became public.
He couldn't quite grasp the full scale of Dukel's design—but when his gaze turned to the throne, and he saw the Primarch's calm, knowing smile, something inside him clicked.
This was no ordinary man. Even what little he had glimpsed—the tip of the blade—was enough to convince him. Only someone like Dukel could unify the fractured Imperium and transform it into a true galactic force once more.
In the far end of the hall, Anna, correspondent for the Imperial Herald, was overwhelmed by ideas. Articles and essays formed rapidly in her mind, sparked by everything she had witnessed. If time allowed, she would have already begun writing, unable to suppress the need to record this pivotal moment in history.
The trial ended quickly, overshadowed by the grander meeting still underway.
In this war council of Imperial heroes and commanders, the matter of the saint and the chief interrogator had been but a minor interlude.
There were far more urgent matters to discuss. Every decision here could dictate the fate of worlds—perhaps thousands.
As a chronicler, Anna had no right to speak in the debate. She could only listen, recording each word with discipline and awe.
But when a pause finally came, and a break was declared, Anna raised her hand.
The Warmaster gave a slight nod. Permission granted.
"My lord," she asked, "what is the strategic objective for the next phase of the Crusade?"
Dukel's response was immediate.
"I was just about to address that," he said.
"It is undeniable—we've claimed victory in the second phase of the Indomitable Crusade. The success came with such ease it borders on the surreal. It is a triumph worthy of pride… but not of arrogance. Our enemies are ancient, cunning, and unrelenting. To underestimate them would be fatal."
"War is not bound by logic. No matter how prepared we are, it erupts suddenly, often without warning. Do you remember why Efilar set out in the first place? Her original mission was to crush the rebellion of the so-called Supreme King. And even now, rebellion and heresy simmer across the stars."
The chamber held many of the Imperium's greatest leaders. Captain Neil of the Weepers Chapter. Admiral Siber of the Segmentum Solar Navy. Supreme Knight King Hake of the Argentum Templars.
Tens of thousands of commanders filled the vast hall.
At the center, beneath the radiant dome lights, the Warmaster sat enthroned.
Anti-grav aircraft buzzed overhead, their hum barely rising above the murmurs. Brass-and-bone servitors, shaped like winged angels, circled overhead—mechanical wings rustling as their sensor eyes blinked red, ever watching.
And in the shadows behind them all, one figure watched silently.
Curze.
The Night Haunter had no intention of stepping into the light—not even on a day of triumph. Like a ghost, he lingered unseen.
He and his kin shared an aversion to legacy. They were more comfortable in shadow than in ceremony. The Empire called, but the Night Lords did not answer.
Thanks to his mastery over darkness, Curze could have remained invisible to all.
All but Dukel.
Their eyes met for the briefest moment—subtle, knowing. A silent exchange between brothers.
Still, Curze did not step forward. After resurrection and reflection, he found little interest in rebuilding the Imperium. He had come only out of curiosity—to see how Dukel would reshape the Empire, and whether it would fall once again into ruin… or rise anew from the abyss.
He was not a participant. Only an observer.
Dukel's voice rang out again:
"The Imperium demands much from its people. Across billions of worlds, they bleed and suffer in our name. Their sons, their fathers, their lives—all offered to the Emperor's dream."
"And yet, we have failed them."
"Since the Great Rift tore the galaxy asunder, Chaos and xenos infest our borders. Too many worlds languish in shadow. If the Empire's glory belongs only to the few, then it has already failed."
"The second phase of the Indomitable Crusade has ended. We've breached the front between the Imperium and the Dark Side. We've expanded the frontier deep into the Eye of Terror itself."
"But now begins the third phase."
"All main forces will march into the Realm of Chaos, continuing the assault."
"But the supporting legions—those not essential to the central thrust—will be divided and dispersed. Their task is no less sacred: to pacify the fringe, to cross the Great Rift, to strike down rebellion, heresy, and the lesser threats that still gnaw at our borders."
"Whether alien, traitor, pirate, or beast—it matters not."
"If they threaten the citizens of the Imperium, they will be purged."
Anna carefully lifted her pen and began writing, word by word, determined to document this historic moment with absolute precision.
"Gentlemen," Dukel's voice rang out, resonating with the subtle hum of power that lingered in the air, "though the servants of Chaos have fallen momentarily silent, the war is far from over. The number of our enemies defies reason. But we cannot continue this crusade by draining every last drop of blood from the people."
"It is time we fulfill our duty as protectors—time to ensure the safety of our citizens and restore their faith in the Imperium. No longer should Imperial citizens be driven to desperation, seeking solace in the whispers of cults, only to damn entire worlds to oblivion. I ask that you walk among the suffering masses—hear their voices, know their joy and their pain."
"They are the bedrock of the Imperium. It is their flesh and blood that fuels this empire's survival in this age of madness. Their sons and husbands bear the weight of wars they may never return from."
Dukel's words thundered through the chamber, laced with psychic undertones that shimmered like heatwaves in the air. His voice struck directly at the soul—compelling, impossible to ignore.
Many among those present were veterans, grizzled from decades—some centuries—of bloodshed. They had witnessed atrocities beyond description. The scale of carnage they had endured had long since hollowed them. The death of a family, a world, a civilization—none of it stirred them anymore.
Or so they believed.
Yet now, as Dukel spoke, memories came unbidden. Faces of civilians slaughtered by xenos and heretics. Cities burned. Children's eyes wide in confusion, their cries silenced forever. Suddenly, they realized: they had not accepted the horror. They had only gone numb.
Their hearts hadn't hardened—they were just too wounded to feel anymore.
Hidden in the shadows, Curze, the Night Haunter, watched in silence. His expression unreadable, his brow slightly furrowed. Dukel's rhetoric didn't sway him. He knew the truth—the Imperium spanned over a million worlds, scattered across a galaxy of nightmares. The notion that peace could ever reach most of them was, to his mind, absurd.
To Curze, this was idealism, nothing more.
And yet… he didn't notice the slight curve forming at the corner of his scarred lips when Dukel spoke of justice and vengeance for the innocent.
If one could call such a vicious expression a smile.
Dukel spoke for hours, laying forth vision after vision for the Imperium's future.
Many were beautiful—too beautiful, some would say. Fantasies unsuited for a galaxy of war.
And yet, not a single soul objected.
In the history of Mankind, there had never been a shortage of those willing to burn themselves upon the altar of hope.
Why not try?
What if—just this once—it worked?
As the cheers finally began to subside, Dukel rose from his throne and quietly departed the chamber.
Only then did the gathered military lords of the Imperium truly relax.
Without the presence of the Warmaster, conversation resumed in earnest. The echo of boots faded slowly, and gradually they began to leave, murmuring to each other in cautious optimism.
In a quiet corner of the conference hall, Admiral Siber—long-serving officer of the Imperial Navy—sighed heavily.
In all his decades of service, he had never witnessed anything like this: a gathering of such scale, uniting every sector of the Imperial military. Under Dukel's command, a level of unity and coordination once thought impossible had become real.
"If the enemy were to strike here," he muttered grimly, "the chain of command for a hundred billion troops would vanish in an instant."
The Sister of Heart and the Squad of Doom, ever-vigilant, followed closely behind Dukel. Each one moved with twitchy, almost paranoiac awareness. Their hands never strayed far from their weapons. They moved as though at any moment, a heretic might leap from a shadow and drive a dagger into the Warmaster's spine.
Their swords remained unsheathed. Always ready.
As Dukel departed the chamber, Anna, the reporter from the Imperial Herald, jogged to catch up. She was breathless, but determined. She had a duty to record history in motion—to stay close to the man reshaping the galaxy.
Her ultimate task was monumental: to write the definitive biography of Dukel, the Warmaster—a record to inspire future generations, to give scholars something worth preserving.
Perhaps it would even keep a few of them from starving.
The Primarch's next destination was a location known only to those few with the highest clearance: a vault-like sanctum aboard the Inner Fire—his personal command vessel.
This chamber, accessible only with Dukel's direct authorization, remained sealed from all others.
Dukel had grown fond of the Inner Fire, yet he often remarked on its inconvenient grandeur. The Glorious Queen, his flagship, was vast—almost ludicrously so. Its labyrinthine corridors stretched for kilometers.
Even he, a Primarch, sometimes had to board internal shuttles to move quickly from section to section.
The entrance to the hidden sanctum was guarded by two of the Doom Slayers themselves.
Even when Dukel—the Warmaster and Primarch—approached, they followed protocol with unwavering precision. Bio-scanners whirred to life, retinal patterns and gene-seed signatures were verified before the armored titans stood aside.
Doom Slayers were the Imperium's most unyielding sentinels. Even the greater daemons of the Warp would find themselves torn to pieces before crossing this threshold.
Anna, the embedded reporter from the Imperial Chronicle, was allowed to follow, though under strict conditions. Nothing she witnessed here could be disclosed. Not yet.
But one day—when the golden age the Warmaster dreamed of had dawned, when the cries of war gave way to peace—these secrets would be unveiled to the public. Until then, they remained buried beneath protocol and silence.
The Sisters of Soul and the Doom Slayers took positions on either side of the corridor, impassive and alert, their eyes scanning for threats both seen and unseen.
The room ahead was oppressive in its stillness. As Dukel stepped inside, a low mechanical hum stirred, and the environmental systems engaged, adjusting the temperature and pressure to habitable levels.
The chamber was circular, spanning two hundred meters in diameter. Its walls were forged from reinforced plasteel, layered with stasis-weave and null shielding—impenetrable, even from within.
A grated metal platform arced above a resonating well at the chamber's core, dividing the space. The energy field shimmered faintly, distorting the air with ripples of unstable time.
This was a null-space containment vault. Its internal spatial-temporal fabric warped with every passing moment. Unauthorized entry would mean instant annihilation—disassembled molecule by molecule.
None of the systems relied on the Glorious Queen's power grid. Every unit here was self-contained, its safety ensured even in total isolation.
Anna stared at the walls, the sense of unease growing. This wasn't just a research chamber.
It was a prison.
They pressed onward into the deepest chamber.
"Dukel, my brother, you've finally arrived," said a voice—sharp, serpentine, and crackling with false enthusiasm.
"You almost sound disappointed I came at all," Dukel replied dryly. "You called me here with urgency. I expect real trouble."
"Oh, trouble indeed. Look at what I've found—an Emperor's Child... and another Führer."
The voice echoed around the chamber, accompanied by the low whirr of servo-motors and humming anti-grav engines. Something moved behind the reinforced barrier, drawing closer.
Anna stood behind Dukel, who towered above her like a fortress wall. She leaned out, curious. Whoever this was had dared to call the Warmaster "brother."
But when she caught sight of the speaker, her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened in horror, and she instinctively covered her mouth to stifle a scream.
Floating toward them was a massive red head—a cyclopean visage, monstrous and majestic. The eye glowed with arcane energy, the surface of the crimson helm etched with runes both forbidden and sublime.
It was nearly the size of her torso, held aloft by a grav-platform.
The head of Magnus the Red.
The Crimson King.
...
TN:
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