-Throne Room
The golden light of the Throne dimmed to a steadier glow. The oppressive heat of the psychic storm slowly dissipated, leaving the throne room in stillness once more, save for the labored, ragged breathing of Nusa.
It was he who spoke first, voice rough but carrying a warmth rarely heard in those hallowed walls.
"You always did overdo things, Atham."
A faint, strained chuckle accompanied the words.
The Emperor's voice did not come through his lips. His body, still tethered to the arcane machinery of the Golden Throne, remained unresponsive. Nusa's intervention had not been the panacea to fully restore him.
Instead, the voice came through the endless ocean of the Warp — no longer the searing will of a warlord, but the tone of a brother.
{I have wronged you, brother. I forced you to destroy your own creations not out of wisdom, but fear. Fear of what your genius might make without me. And I have regretted it in every silent millennium since. I hurt you. I would ask your forgiveness.}
For a heartbeat, Nusa's eyes darkened, rage flickering within them like a storm about to break. That wound — the greatest reason for his exile — burned anew.
But as swiftly as the fury rose, it subsided.
He exhaled, wiping blood from his chin, and slowly shook his head.
"Not just to me, old friend."
Nusa's gaze shifted toward the kneeling figure nearby. The Lord of Ultramar, having seen his father stirred to life once more, returning to his kneeling position.
"You owe your son an apology as well."
His voice softened, though its edge remained.
"I don't know what passed between you two, but I've seen the look of a traumatized child before and it's written all over him. From what I've learned, he's done his best to fulfill his duty as a son."
Guilliman stiffened, his head bowing lower, shoulders taut.
A pulse rippled through the Warp, and the Emperor's voice came again not as command, but as a father, gentle and achingly human.
{Roboute… my son. I was cruel to you. Not because you failed, but because the duty I laid upon you was too heavy for any to bear. In my hubris, I made you a weapon when you were meant to be more. I am… sorry.}
The words struck like a physical blow against ancient armor.
Guilliman's shoulders trembled, breath hitching in his throat. He looked up, blue eyes shining with unshed tears. In that moment, he was no longer Lord Commander, no longer the Avenging Son.
He was simply a son.
Wordlessly, he crossed the distance and knelt before the Golden Throne, reaching out hesitantly until the emperor's gauntleted hand, still bound to ancient machinery, twitched.
Even that small, almost insignificant movement exacted a terrible toll on the emperor.
Yet it was nothing compared to the pain he had inflicted upon his son.
Guilliman grasped his father's hand, calloused fingers closing around unyielding adamantium. And for the first time in ten thousand years, father and son were bound again — not as ruler and general, not as creator and creation, but as kin.
A soft glow rose between them.
Guilliman's wounds, both visible and hidden, began to heal.
{Brother… help me. My control is still weak.}
"Father, you don't have to…"
Guilliman's voice cracked, tears falling freely now. His grip tightened, afraid he might harm his father, yet unwilling to let go.
Nusa gave a weary nod. With a shaky step, he knelt beside Guilliman.
The Machinist's hand could only reach up to the Primarch's lower waist, yet it was enough.
It did not take long. The worst of Guilliman's wounds knit shut, leaving behind the scars he chose to keep.
When the moment passed, Nusa exhaled, the weight of ancient burdens and psychic strain settling upon him like a worn cloak. He wiped a hand across his face, smearing blood and sweat.
"Curious," he murmured, voice low but carrying to every ear in the chamber.
"I thought my cognitive systems were infallible. Seems this… reunion has disrupted even my deepest archives."
A long pause followed, the meaning behind his words sinking into the chamber's silence.
His gaze, once softened, sharpened to a cutting edge as he looked between the Emperor and Guilliman.
"One family member remains."
The name came like the cracking of an ancient faultline.
"Magnus."
A flicker of old pain crossed both Guilliman's face and the Emperor's psychic glow.
"How do you want me to deal with him?" Nusa asked, his voice grave.
With a thought, a small, shimmering cube materialized in his palm — the prison where the Crimson King is being imprison.
There was a long moment of hesitation before the Emperor's voice answered.
{…Leave him here. I wish to speak with him. Later.}
Nusa nodded, his augmetic eyes gleaming. The cube shone softly in response.
"I've allowed your psychic presence to seep inside. The link is open."
{Thank you, brother.}
A faint grin tugged at Nusa's lips.
"Alright… family reunion aside," he said, a touch of dry humor returning to his voice.
"We've got a galaxy bleeding to death out there. Atham, what's the next move for humanity?"
Though Nusa held power enough to impose his will upon mankind, yet as a brother he choses to follow the Emperor's path.
Guilliman rose, wiping his face, steel returning to his gaze.
"The Indomitus Crusade."
He spoke with the authority of one who had already begun.
"After my resurrection, I studied the Imperium's state. We need to strike back, to give humanity hope. I've gathered the fleets. hundreds of regiments, dozens of Chapters, with more to come. Within a year, we'll have the strength to launch a crusade."
He let out a steadying breath.
"And with the creation of the new Primaris Marines, a new hope will rise."
The Emperor's presence surged in the Warp once more — not as a tyrant, but as a beacon.
{Then let it be so. Let the stars burn with our light once more.}