Chapter 185: They Are Heroes
Within the Immaterium, aboard the Emperor-class Battleship Dawnlight, time unknown...
The xenos and heretics of Estelia had been cleansed. Every last trace had been scoured from existence. Because the World Spirit still lived, humanity did not even need to concern itself with restoring the planet's climate. With the passage of time, the world would once again become the jewel of Eastern Ultramar.
The Warp remained as it always was: a churning chaos of raw emotion, where agonizing howls rode the empyrean tides, and monstrous, grotesque void-behemoths could occasionally be glimpsed. Amidst this turmoil, a deep calm reigned within the Dawnlight Fleet, as if the daemons themselves knew this sanctuary was not to be touched. The only sound in the corridors was the soft hum of servo-skulls. The children were long since asleep in their quarters. The entire fleet was enveloped in a rare, pre-battle peace, just as it had always been.
And in the ship's Grand Sanctum, a sacred commendation was taking place.
Blood Angels held lit censers, the fragrant smoke swirling between their suits of power armour. They stood in a perfect, winged formation, enclosing the warriors of the Lamenters Chapter. The stone causeway outside the temple was lined with sarcophagi containing the broken bodies of the fallen, each draped with a banner bearing its Chapter's sigil. The sigil of the Lamenters was the most numerous.
"My... my Lord..."
Under the envious gazes of his blood-kin, bathed in the radiance emanating from the Seraph, and presented with banners and wargear symbolizing the highest honour, the Chapter Master of the Lamenters, Malakim Phoros, appeared deeply uncomfortable.
In a single battle, he had lost a third of his Space Marines, only to save a mere tenth of a planet's human population. If not for the timely arrival of the Dawnlight Fleet, they would have saved even fewer. From the bottom of his heart, he felt this war was a catastrophic failure for the Lamenters. The thought gnawed at him like a sharp knife, and his voice grew heavy.
"We are not worthy."
Fire practically erupted from the eyes of the Flesh Tearers. Their respirators hissed with a sharp burst of static. Are you serious? Lord Karna himself has shown you such high esteem, and you say you are not worthy? Then what does that make us?
Karna sighed softly. Perhaps it was because of their long history of being ostracized for their ill fortune and their unorthodox ways, but the Lamenters seemed to possess a strange sense of inferiority when interacting with their battle-brothers. Furthermore, they genuinely believed that failing to save more lives with the sacrifice of their brothers was a source of deep shame.
But to most other Astartes, such an act was unforgivable arrogance.
They dared to refuse the honour bestowed by the Angel.
When one walks a noble path that no one has walked before, one must endure the solitude that comes with it.
The Angel did not chide them. Instead, he reached out and caressed a nearby sarcophagus. He himself had carved the intricate filigree and the memorial inscription upon it. The fingertips of his master-crafted power armour made a soft, whispering sound as they traced the lines.
"Was it worth it?" he asked, his voice quiet, yet it seemed to make the very air in the sanctum stand still.
"It was," Phoros answered without hesitation. "Sacrifice is for the saving of lives." He was only tormented that he could not have better honoured the sacrifices of his battle-brothers.
"Then you are worthy."
On a high balcony overlooking the sanctum, Arthur stood like a statue, his hands resting on the railing.
"Lord Arthur."
Inquisitor Aglaia approached, dragging her weary body. Though her eyes still held the vacant look of one who has worked at high intensity for too long, they also contained an excitement she could not hide.
"Congratulations," Arthur said, his gaze shifting briefly from the sarcophagi to the Inquisitor. His eyes were as calm as a winter mist, yet held an unconscious, almost imperceptible scrutiny. The cuffs of her long sleeves were still stained with ink, the embroidery slightly frayed from repeated friction. Clearly, she had not rested.
The Inquisitor had been busy settling the psykers she had taken under her wing. And the result, judging by the light in her eyes and the spring in her step, was good. Better than good.
"What is it?" he asked, turning his head slightly. The cold light from outside the balcony cast a sharp shadow on his stern features.
Aglaia took a deep breath, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the worn embroidery on her cuff. She lifted her head, her gaze firm and earnest.
"My Lord, I wish to enroll these children into the Dawnlight Fleet's educational system. And... I hope that my branch of the Ordo Originatus may have the opportunity to recruit talent from the 'Dawnlight Education Initiative'."
Her voice was soft, yet held an undeniable conviction. The immense pressure of the Tyranid threat and the abstract incompetence of Imperial defense forces had left her feeling deeply insecure. In the future, her holdings on Estelia would serve as a provisional office in the southwest of the Ultramar Sector, its primary mission to gather healthy, stable psykers and provide them with a relatively safe environment in which to grow.
But for the children's ultimate destination, Aglaia had chosen the Dawnbreakers.
The quality of life was beyond compare; in this age, one would be hard-pressed to find any power that could provide such conditions for human development. In terms of education, Ramesses was an expert in the psychic arts, with a deep well of practical experience. His compiled text, The Nature and Application of Psybernetics (Preschool Edition), was a tome that even she studied daily, and from which she had benefited greatly.
As for future employment, there was no cause for concern. With the invasion of extragalactic xenos like the Tyranids, the intensity of warfare in the galaxy was visibly escalating. Lord Ramesses was constantly pushing for the expansion of the Librarius, as its importance in localized conflicts was irreplaceable. Of course, his ideas were not born of whim; they were still in the talent-development phase. Librarians from every participating Chapter were being brought to the Dawnlight for re-education. After long academic discussions with the Aeldari Farseers, Ramesses had concluded that the vast majority of Imperial psykers were incompetent in the practical application of their powers. Stable psykers were excellent raw material for the Librarius.
And for those psykers who could not pass the Astartes' selection process, organizations like the Inquisition, the Officio Assassinorum, and the Adeptus Astra Telepathica had plenty of positions for them. Even the Culexus Assassins, composed entirely of Blanks, had opened a branch office on the Dawnlight. Aglaia felt she had to keep pace with the Grand Master of Assassins.
After trailing the four lords across half the galaxy, her own perspective had undergone a subtle shift. Since she could no longer rely on the bloated inefficiency of the Imperium, she might as well place her strength in the hands of the Dawnbreakers, who were far more capable of wielding it.
"Have you submitted the report?" Arthur asked.
"The list of names and the detailed proposal have been submitted to Lord Romulus. Final approval will require a decision from all four of you," Aglaia replied immediately. The decision-making process within the Dawnbreakers was always thus: each core member held a veto, and important matters required unanimous consent. Ramesses would periodically convene a council to handle such issues, though petitioners could also choose to visit each lord individually.
At least her own master was always at the center of power.
Nearby, the Dark Angels, who had been grumbling about the Blood Angels' ceremony, quieted down. They understood that to ensure the fleet's security, they had to conceal their own existence. Public-facing events like this were not for them. To disrupt the Dawnbreakers' strategic deployment for a moment of petulance would be incredibly foolish.
But comparison is the thief of joy.
They looked at the radiant Blood Angels, bathed in glory and worshipped by all the powers of the Imperium. They looked at the ambitious Ultramarine, coordinating the entire system, master of the Dawnbreakers. And then they looked at themselves, forever keeping secrets, their only interactions with outsiders being with unavoidable nuisances like the Space Wolves. Even staunch allies like High Marshal Helbrecht of the Black Templars did not know the full extent of their existence.
They understood. But it didn't mean they liked it.
"I approve," Arthur said. What were a few more people? They believed their ideological foundation was superior to that of most in the Imperium. Absorbing such special talents would not be difficult. If they lacked even that much confidence, they had no business trying to change the galaxy.
"Thank you, Lord Arthur," Aglaia said with a slight curtsy. She suddenly felt the atmosphere around her calm considerably. War meant bloodshed, and the losses she had sustained were, by comparison, the lightest of all.
"You should also thank the warriors who fought for them," Arthur continued. "It is their sacrifice that has forged this miracle." The Lamenters had not, as would have been standard procedure, simply deployed Exterminatus and razed the garden world. They had fought for countless living souls, and with their own sacrifice, had allowed those souls to survive until salvation arrived.
Aglaia nodded gravely, understanding the four lords' reverence for life. She looked down at the sanctum below. In a gallery illuminated by a bright light, a series of pict-captures displayed the Lamenters' battle in its entirety. Craters, corpses, an endless sea of enemies, and warriors standing like stubborn reefs against the tide. The Imperial Aquila was shattered, but behind them were thousands of people, an unbroken line.
The sky was dark, the light as faint as a spark, but the ground was flecked with gold, interwoven with blood—a tapestry of such brutal, sacred beauty that it was hard to look away.
It was beautiful.
Aglaia, who had witnessed the cruelty of war through countless battles and endless documents, for the first time, felt 'beauty' in a conflict. This was different from the generous gifts of the four lords. This was a poem written with the very lives of the Lamenters. Her gaze rested on a tattered banner, where the bleeding heart sigil seemed to still be beating in the wind. This was a beauty unique to them, unique to this universe, one of the few pieces of it that still remained.
Karna raised his spear, its tip glinting in the beam of light from the sanctum's dome. Beside him stood suits of ceremonial armour and banners of honour. And in the most prominent place were letters of thanks from the people they had saved, recounting their stories.
Phoros's breath caught in his throat. He saw Karna's fingertips trace a letter with a yellowed edge. On it, a child had drawn a picture of a Lamenter in a heroic pose with a稚嫩 hand.
In that moment, he truly understood the thoughts hidden deep within this Primarch. This was not a simple commendation. It was an affirmation of their entire Chapter's spirit, a validation of the path they had chosen.
Under the watchful eyes of countless Imperial dignitaries and their own blood-kin, the Lamenters received Karna's invitation once more. He offered them the letters, filled with the raw emotion of the saved.
"Come to me," he said. "My heroes."
They were heroes.
And they should not be alone.
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