964.M30.
The heavy doors closed slowly. The Regent, cloaked in black and bearing his staff, walked alone into the throne room of the Imperial Palace.
Malcador's weathered face was unusually sorrowful today as he approached the Emperor.
The subterranean fortress was many times larger than the cold lake beside the Primarchs' villas, through which he had passed to get here. It was crammed with machines:
Endless steam pipes, tangling cables covering the floors and walls.
Towering rows of equipment, interspersed with countless panels and gauges.
Unceasing pistons, deep in the cavern's furthest reaches, kept the floor vibrating.
Thousands of grimy servitors maintained the machines under the watch of Tech-Priests in red and black cloaks.
At the geometric center of the vast cavern stood a golden construct.
Its towering dais was kilometers high, its entire surface inlaid with silver runic circuits.
A Gordian knot of cables and conduits drove every machine from top to bottom, feeding an endless stream of energy into the mysterious core.
Malcador walked forward, stopping before the Golden Throne.
This machine, excavated from a lost relic deep in Terra's deserts, revealed the many mysteries of the xenos' Webway. It contained dimension inhibitors and void buffers of unimaginable complexity.
His master's grand plan rested on the alien device.
It held the future of the Imperium and the human race.
An intangible psychic barrier rose silently, ensuring their conversation could be heard by no other.
"My liege."
"After securing their final victory, they lingered for years among the compliant worlds?" The Emperor's voice was gentle yet firm. Though phrased as a question, it was an accusation.
"They continued to drive the people towards blind, misguided faith. They seduced the ignorant into forming cults, erecting monuments to support the lie that I am a god?"
Malcador's morbidly pale face, tinged with grey, was marked with obvious sorrow.
"They worship you..."
"Enough. Do not speak for him further." The Emperor's gaze held only chilling disappointment.
"They must be taught a lesson."
"Monarchia, their city of worship, must be destroyed."
Malcador, his hand on his staff carved with the Emperor's twin-headed eagle, knew his master had decided.
"Whom will you choose?"
"Your Pegasus, Nareth?"
"Or Russ?"
"No," the Emperor shook his head. "The 11th Legion has no fewer Chaplains than the 17th. They have fostered an extraordinary worship of Nareth within the Shadow of Order."
"It transcends the bond of father and son."
"It is a religious devotion."
Malcador nodded. His mind also went to the war council where Nareth had refused the Emperor's command, he would not participate in the censure of the unnamed Legion.
He also recalled Russ mentioning that Nareth had given the lost Primarch a proper burial.
Nareth would not wish to be the one to deliver this rebuke.
"Russ and his Wolves have always believed me to be the Allfather of Fenrisian myth."
"Though their beliefs have not impacted the pace of their conquests, they are not the ideal choice."
A golden light flickered in his eyes. "I need a paragon of the Imperial Truth."
Malcador's gaze grew deep. He thought of Horus, Dorn, and Guilliman. All were exemplary representatives of the Imperial Truth.
Horus's glorious image contained tolerance and brotherly love. He should not be associated with a brutal act against a brother.
Only two choices remained: Dorn and Guilliman.
Which would his liege choose?
"Guilliman."
"His conquests grow ever more glorious, rivaling those of Horus and Nareth."
"His Legion, and his Five Hundred Worlds, are inhospitable to the soil of corrupting faith."
...
Kur was the tenth world pacified by Expedition Fleet 47, hence its official designation: 47-10.
For sixty-one years since joining the Imperium, under the teachings of the grey-armored Angels, they had devoutly worshipped the God-Emperor on Terra.
They recited the holy prayers daily.
Their capital, Monarchia, built anew on the foundations of their faith, was a perfect city dedicated to the God-Emperor.
Monarchia was the embodiment of their faith.
Sixty-one years later, the sacred Aquila they worshipped descended from the heavens, landing in the God-Emperor's perfect city.
The blue Angels did not bear the sacred scriptures upon their armor, like the grey Angels.
Their cold faceplates, with slits of crimson, gleamed with a pitiless light.
Their boltguns were aimed at the silent, kneeling citizens. Loudspeakers blared, repeating in the local Kur language:
"The Emperor of Mankind, with profound regret, commands all living beings in Monarchia to abandon the city immediately."
"The city must be completely emptied within six days."
"At dawn on the seventh day, no one may remain in Monarchia."
"Return immediately to your homes, gather your belongings, and leave the city as quickly as possible. Resistance will bring only death."
"Where would we go?" asked Cyrene Valantion, who would turn eighteen in three weeks. "This is our home!"
A cobalt-blue Angel aimed at Cyrene. The loudspeaker repeated its message.
"The Emperor of Mankind..."
Bang!
A bottle smashed against a blue Angel's helmet. Others shouted angrily.
"You are false Angels!"
"We will never leave!"
"..."
Cyrene ran. Behind her, heavy roars echoed.
The false Angels opened fire on the faithful of the God-Emperor.
Not just in Monarchia. The entire planet's six billion inhabitants were ordered to evacuate within six days.
The sixth day.
Planetary leaders were granted the chance to send a single emergency communication. They sent their first and only distress call.
[Word Bearers, hear our prayer.]
[False Angels have descended upon us. They wear your shape, but none of your mercy... All who resist have been slaughtered…]
[Monarchia is not the exception. The sixteen cities of our world stand empty, utterly silent.]
[For days, we have been forced into silence, unable to call to you. The 13th Legion only now allows us to speak, in the hours before the final dawn. They say they will end the perfect city with a fiery storm at tomorrow's dawn…]
[Return! Make them pay for this injustice. Avenge the brave ones who have fallen…]
[Return, sons of the God-Emperor of Endless Blessings. Return...]
As the sun rose on the seventh day, Cyrene knelt on a hilltop at the foot of Mount Galakh, wrapped in a traditional silk dress.
She looked east towards the perfect city. The sun climbed inexorably into the sky.
Pale golden light washed over the spires and domes of Monarchia.
"By the sacred blood of the God-Emperor!" Two streams of hot tears rolled down Cyrene's cheeks.
As dawn broke, the sky grew brighter.
Fire fell from the heavens. Brilliant lances of light pierced the clouds, striking directly into the planet's capital, Monarchia.
The world beneath Cyrene's feet trembled violently. Her eyes witnessed the perfect city of the God-Emperor reduced to ruins, the atrocity of countless towers consumed in an inferno.
She prayed for retribution.
....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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