Part I – A Glimpse of the Bleeding Galaxy
The flow of work was unceasing, a vast, torrential waterfall of documents and data-slates that flooded the Princess's chambers, a constant inundation from every corner of the Imperium that could still pierce the veil of the Great Rift and contact Holy Terra. Aurelia sat for hours upon hours, a solitary, luminous figure amidst the sprawling expanse of her grand desk, her celestial gaze sweeping across the reports, her hand a graceful blur as she made notes, wrote orders, and dispatched decrees. Yet, even as she dedicated every waking moment to this gargantuan task, she knew she was barely touching a minuscule fraction of the immense work that was required. It was not merely a demanding job; it was stressful, tiring, and utterly without end. Aurelia had to concede that, while she was not merely human in the conventional sense, and could indeed work for days, even weeks, without sleep, it did not render her immune to exhaustion. But honestly, what else could she do but push onward, to bear this immense burden, to keep the Imperium from imploding under the sheer weight of its own despair?
It wouldn't be the first time, she was put in a position of chaos. Aurelia recalled the Horus Heresy all to well.
Aurelia gazed at the vast, mountainous piles of documents and data-slates, her specialised cogitators humming with ceaseless, tireless work. She had devised a system of coloured stripes to categorise the endless records, to better distinguish their priority and focus.
The documents with green stripes were a rare, welcome respite, a faint glimmer of light at the end of a long, dark tunnel. These contained reports from worlds returning to the Imperial fold, worlds that had endured the long night of the Noctis Aeterna, ignored by the grasping tendrils of Chaos, and were now, with renewed hope, re-establishing contact. These were also the worlds now bathed in the protective glow of her cosmic light, worlds rendered safe from daemonic incursion, primarily within the Segmentum Solar and its burgeoning periphery. When Aurelia's gaze fell upon a document with a green stripe, left on her desk by Consul Jek, she allowed herself a brief, precious moment of contented breath.
Sadly, the rest of the reports were not so encouraging. The next tier, marked with yellow stripes, represented worlds recovering from the ravages of Chaos, from cultist uprisings, and from daemonic incursions. These worlds cried out for reinforcements, for soldiers to protect their fragile peace, for tax exemptions to rebuild their shattered economies, for food, medicine, and every other conceivable resource. Aurelia dedicated the majority of her waking hours to these vital systems, which were scattered not just across the Segmentum Solar but throughout the entire Imperium. She organised countless small-scale operations, ensuring that ships laden with resources and personnel reached their destinations, that the slow, arduous process of repair and fortification began without delay. Her Lionguard and the Order of the Holy Hestias were proving invaluable in this endeavour, their martial prowess and zealous devotion ensuring peace was maintained and any lingering cultist threats were swiftly, mercilessly, quelled.
Yet, the documents bearing the red stripes were a constant, grim reminder of the Imperium's precarious state. These were planets and systems on the very precipice of collapse, engulfed in ceaseless war, being slowly consumed by the voracious appetites of Chaos, Orks, and the Tyranids—the ever-growing list of the Imperium's innumerable foes. These were the planets and systems to which the Indomitus Crusade now turned its gaze, the inevitable battlegrounds her brother, Guilliman, would soon face. She could only, from her distant sanctuary, ensure a ceaseless flow of provisions, weapons, and supplies to him, knowing these worlds were far beyond the reach of her protective light, and certain that Chaos would make its most determined stand in these very places.
And then, there were the black stripes. These data-slates and documents were brutally straightforward: they were the lost. Systems and planets gone forever, swallowed by the gaping maw of the Great Rift, utterly consumed by Chaos, or simply overrun by the other countless enemies of Mankind. And Aurelia watched, with a growing, cold dread, as the piles of red and black striped documents grew, day by inexorable day.
She closed her eyes for a brief, sorrowful moment, then picked up a data-slate from the black stripe documents. Her celestial gaze scanned the grim, final report. The script was stark, devoid of emotion. "Sector Theron. Sub-sector Lybria. Systems: 14. Worlds: 70. Population: Est. 370 billion souls. Status: Consumed. Vox silentium."
"Billions lost," Aurelia whispered, her voice a soft lament as she dutifully recorded the name of yet another lost system, a fresh addition to a list that numbered in the hundreds—a stark, personal reminder of the relentless, agonising attrition of this endless age of war.
She leaned back in her grand chair, closing her eyes for a few seconds, allowing herself a quiet, profound moment of mourning before the relentless tide of work consumed her once more.
Thankfully, her duties extended beyond merely chronicling the Imperium's slow, agonising demise. Aurelia's attention now shifted to other reports, those bearing grey stripes, detailing events on the Imperium's far-flung fringes. She saw a disturbing pattern emerging: a significant disturbance in the Pharia Nexus, near the Nephilim Sector. Reports of the "Nephilim Anomaly" arrived in a cascade of increasingly panicked warnings. Aurelia knew, with the chilling clarity of her cosmic awareness, what this truly meant: the Warp Storms and the Great Rift were not the cause, but merely a symptom. The Necrons were awakening, dynasty after countless dynasty, rising from their sixty-million-year slumber. This, for Aurelia, was a source of profound, gnawing anxiety.
"The Imperium cannot stop them. We will lose, without a shadow of a doubt," Aurelia whispered to herself, her voice a hushed, despairing breath. They might achieve fleeting victories, a few scattered triumphs, but to what end? They could not truly defeat them. The Imperium, even with all the new weapons, armours, battleships, and vehicles emerging from its forges and the countless STCs now at its disposal, was still woefully outmatched. Decades, perhaps even centuries, would pass before they could truly rival the Necrons' technological might.
Something, Aurelia knew, had to be done.
She sighed, a sound filled with the weight of galaxies, and realised she needed to move, to breathe, to feel the fragile air of Terra. "I require fresh air," she whispered, rising from her desk, taking a single, crucial data-slate with her. Her Custodes and Hestias, a silent, ever-present escort, followed her as she made her way from her chambers at the apex of the Golden Tower, down into one of her magnificent gardens. The new atmospheric engines were indeed performing wonders; the sky above Terra was not yet a pure, pristine blue, but the thick, oppressive smog had visibly thinned. One could now discern a faint, almost ethereal azure in the distance.
The air was still, heavy with the residual tang of pollutants, but it was undeniably changing, slowly, inexorably. The lake she had once crafted, long since vanished, had been reborn, its shimmering waters a singular jewel of tranquillity in the scarred landscape of Terra, her personal retreat amidst towering trees and lush, verdant grass. This was not yet the Eden she remembered, but it held a profound, comforting sense of belonging.
As she read the data-slate, her gaze sweeping across the vast, galactic map, Aurelia's mind began to race, surrounded by her Custodes, Lionguard, and Hestias.
"Necrons, Orks, Tyranids, Chaos," Aurelia whispered to herself, walking alongside the shimmering surface of her lake. "These are the most immediate, the most existential threats." There were, of course, countless other foes, but these four, she knew, represented the ultimate, catastrophic end of the Imperium.
She hummed thoughtfully, her mind a whirlwind of strategic calculations. How to deal with such monumental, almost insurmountable threats? The Orks were a never-ending green tide, the Tyranids a cosmic plague of unfathomable scale. Chaos and its Great Game, fueled by the Great Rift, were now more powerful than ever. And the Necrons were a technological cataclysm, poised to reassert their ancient, unyielding dominion. Thankfully, Aurelia hoped, the Necrons were as fractious and divided as the Imperium itself.
"So, what can we do?" Aurelia mumbled, sinking onto one of the many ornate benches Dorn had crafted for her, her gaze fixed on the fleeting glimpses of blue sky and the placid surface of the lake. She knew she would need to commune with her father, for in her profound loneliness, she felt a desperate need for his counsel. Yet, an idea, a fragile spark of a solution, began to form in her mind. Not enough to staunch the Imperium's bleeding, but perhaps enough to bind some of the most grievous wounds. She envisioned two species, brought together not as allies—that term, she knew, would be anathema to the deeply xenophobic Senatorum Imperialis—but as a unified front, bound by circumstance.
Could such a coalition be achieved? Aurelia truly believed so. It was logical and pragmatic to focus on the true existential threats rather than squander resources in countless, unwinnable wars. But was it truly feasible? That was the genuine concern.
"I could… attempt a parley with the Aeldari," Aurelia muttered to herself, her voice barely a whisper. She knew their primary enemies—Chaos and the Tyranids—aligned with her own. But she was also keenly aware of their profound arrogance, their disdain for the Imperium as a primitive, savage race. Oddly enough, Aurelia couldn't entirely fault their assessment. Yet, she would not endure insults from a civilisation that had, through its own hubris, birthed Slaanesh and orchestrated its own cataclysmic fall.
Still, a path towards some form of collaboration had to be found. They shared the same enemies, the same desperate, clinging goal of survival. They might never be true friends, but that was not the point. The point was to unite, however briefly, against their common foes.
"Well, I will try. Let it be known that I attempted all that I could," Aurelia mumbled, leaning back on the cold stone bench and allowing a moment of weary relaxation, before her mind turned to another potential… associate.
The T'au Empire. A young, rapidly expanding race, driven by a compelling ideology of progress and determination. Their "Greater Good" was, she conceded, intriguing. She had read the reports, studied their doctrine, and found it fascinating, even admirable. She understood the appeal for humans to abandon the Imperium for a better life, a better future, no longer as cattle for an endless, grinding war. Aurelia could not, would not, blame them for this choice. And while she perceived the inherent flaws in the T'au's philosophy and the clear hypocrisy of it. But then again, the Imperium had its own vast hypocrisy, that's why she had a easy time to see it on the T'au Empire. She also recognised the staggering speed of their advancement. Their technology was impressive—powerful, lethal, and remarkably reliable. She, as a creator and an architect of technological marvels, respected their ingenuity.
But Aurelia also knew the T'au had yet to face the true, unyielding teeth of the Imperium. They had not yet faced her Colossi-Class Titans, her armies equipped with the most advanced weaponry she had conceived, the vehicles forged in her Silent Furnace. The T'au had not yet encountered her Aquila-Class Battlecruisers, her Stellaris-Class Battleships, or borne witness to her Aeternum-Maximus Behemoths—vessels still more technologically advanced than anything in their burgeoning arsenal. This was not a matter of pride, but a stark, undeniable truth.
Yet, that truth was also tempered by a grim reality: perhaps only twenty per cent of the Imperium's forces possessed the elite status and the advanced equipment to truly dominate the galaxy's significant threats. The other eighty percent, the vast, teeming masses of the Astra Militarum, were armed with little more than lasguns and antiquated equipment, left to fend for themselves. This meant the T'au Empire's forces were, on average, more prepared, more technologically advanced, more lethal than the vast majority of the Imperium's armies and fleets. The Imperium could, of course, overwhelm them with sheer numbers, but such a strategy, to Aurelia, was abhorrent.
Besides, the Imperium had more concerning matters to face than the T'au.
This was a considerable imbalance, and Aurelia was keenly aware of it. The Imperium's stagnation had left it dangerously vulnerable, and she shuddered to think how much further it might have fallen without her intervention.
"Still, the T'au are an interesting species. Why, precisely, are we even at war with them?" Aurelia mumbled to herself, then recoiled at the immediate, visceral memory of the Imperium's profound, ingrained hatred for all xenos. She sighed, realising the truth: there was no logical reason. The T'au were xenos, and that, for the Imperium, was reason enough. And with the T'au's relentless expansion of their "Greater Good," and the increasing number of human worlds defecting to their cause, the Imperium's xenophobia was given yet another justification.
"So," Aurelia concluded, her voice now a low, resolute whisper, "we can either forge a path to collaboration with the Aeldari and the T'au to combat our common enemies… or we can all perish, separately, in our isolated pride." She paused, her celestial eyes fixed on the distant, pale blue sky, her decision solidifying. She had to try. She had to force the Imperium to change, to adapt, to survive. And if that meant dragging the High Lords, kicking and screaming, to a negotiating table with xenos, she would do so.
"If that is what it takes to secure a fighting chance for humanity," Aurelia declared, her voice now echoing with the quiet, unyielding authority of her primordial essence, "so be it."
Part II – A Historian's Burden
Fabian Guelphrain had, over the ensuing months, acclimatised to the profound, overwhelming immensity that was the Gladius Aeternitas. To say he had "grown used to it" was a simplification; rather, he had consciously chosen to ignore the sheer, continental scale of the vessel, focusing instead on the tangible, human elements of his immediate surroundings. It was, in an odd way, easy to pretend he was still on Terra, ensconced in his cluttered chambers, for the battleship—if such a mundane term could truly apply—was less a vessel and more a meticulously planned Hive City adrift in the void, mercifully free of the oppressive smog and decaying infrastructure. The Gladius Aeternitas, Fabian now understood, was a true, living marvel of forgotten technology.
He had dedicated his initial weeks to meticulously chronicling his experiences within this strange, new world. He discovered that entire generations of people, from common labourers to noble families, resided within its vast Noverrium and Adamantium hulls. These were humans who had never known the soil of a planet beneath their feet, who had lived their entire lives in the service of the ship—their home. Fabian was utterly fascinated by this revelation, spending countless hours writing, observing, and trying to understand their unique culture and their history. It was, he knew, history in the very making. Yet, his scholarly pursuits were constantly interrupted by his other, more pressing, duties.
One of which was an imminent meeting with the Lord Commander of the Imperium himself. Lord Guilliman, Fabian was informed, wished to personally review his progress. Fabian had spent the entire day in a state of barely suppressed nervous dread. The sheer, overwhelming presence of a Primarch was something he still found profoundly unsettling, a sight he doubted any mortal could ever truly acclimate to. Yet, with a deep, fortifying breath, Fabian composed himself, exiting his small but surprisingly comfortable chambers—a space that, to his astonishment, possessed its own personal ablution station, a luxury beyond his wildest imaginings.
He walked through the vast, echoing halls of the Gladius Aeternitas. They were always a hive of activity, a constant flow of Magos, Tech-Priests, soldiers, the ship's multi-generational inhabitants, and even Adeptus Astartes. Yet, unlike a terrestrial Hive City, these corridors were vast, orderly, meticulously designed to accommodate countless millions without a hint of congestion. From the immense, crystalline windows that punctuated the halls, Fabian could gaze out into the boundless, terrifying darkness of the galaxy, punctuated by the glittering lights of the hundreds upon hundreds of ships that formed the Indomitus Crusade fleet. The sheer, incomprehensible scale of it all was, at times, difficult to truly grasp.
A Primaris Space Marine in the brilliant cobalt blue of the Ultramarines approached, his silence as profound as the void outside. Without a word, he guided Fabian towards one of the central domains of the battleship, a restricted section dedicated to the ship's primary governance. Fabian, though still a novice in the ship's intricate workings, was not surprised to learn that a vessel of such monumental scale possessed its own centralised government. Over a million souls lived and toiled within its vast, self-contained ecosystem, their lives intricately woven into the ship's various sectors—from the dark, crowded engine rooms deep within its belly, where arcane technology lost to time was meticulously maintained, until, Fabian had heard, the Princess's own return provided the necessary insights for their complete repair and enhancement, to the vast, artificial farms and colossal recycling industrial sectors, to the labyrinthine armouries that housed weapons capable of shattering entire hive fleets, of ending worlds with a single, cataclysmic charge.
In the very heart of this immense structure lay the Conclave, a vast, domed chamber where, upon looking up, Fabian could see the swirling, distant nebulae of the cosmos, a sight that often left him dizzy with a profound, terrifying vertigo. It was a grand plaza, a central hub where various grand hallways intersected, each leading to different chambers, different enclosures, dedicated to the distinct functions of the Gladius Aeternitas. Here, a grand, sweeping staircase of burnished gold, guarded by heavily armed soldiers at every step, ascended to the ship's command center—the bridge—where the authoritative voice of Lord Caligaran, of the Caligaran Dynasty, echoed, issuing a ceaseless stream of orders.
It struck Fabian as profoundly odd that a Rogue Trader dynasty, rather than the Imperial Navy, held command over the most powerful battleship in the Imperium. Why? Fabian pondered, his historian's mind already racing with new avenues of research. The Conclave was not his destination, however. He was led down a long, high-security hallway, where the density of Ultramarines and even Adeptus Custodes increased exponentially. He swallowed, feeling even smaller than usual, a tiny mote of flesh amidst these demigods of war.
At last, they reached a vast, ornate door. As it slid open, Fabian was ushered into an elegant, sprawling chamber, its grand windows offering a breathtaking view of the ship's inner spirals, a nocturnal cityscape of lights and structures that defied comprehension. The place was a perfect reflection of the Lord Commander himself: beautiful, ordered, and imbued with an unyielding sense of purpose. A holographic map of the galaxy shimmered above a large, central table, surrounded by meticulously organised documents and data-slates. At the far end of the chamber, Guilliman sat at his grand desk, clad in simple, elegant robes of Ultramar. Yet, the robes did nothing to diminish his colossal stature, his undeniable presence as the Avenging Son.
"Fabian," Guilliman's voice, a deep, resonant rumble, echoed in the chamber, causing Fabian to exhale with a shaky breath.
"My Lord!" Fabian's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, struggling to regain his composure. "Lord Guilliman," he corrected, his voice now a little steadier.
"Welcome. It is good to see you again. How have you found your accommodations?" Guilliman asked, his tone surprisingly gentle.
"Pleasant enough, my Lord. I require little, and I could not possibly ask for more," Fabian replied, his voice still trembling slightly. Guilliman nodded, gesturing to a standard-sized chair that materialised from the deck before his immense desk.
Fabian sat, and Guilliman offered him a small, perfectly ripe fruit from a nearby plate. "Would you care for one?"
"I must decline, my Lord, but thank you for the offer," Fabian replied politely. Guilliman hummed, taking a small grape and savouring it with an almost imperceptible pleasure.
"Now," Guilliman began, "I suppose you were somewhat bewildered by my sudden summons. I do not wish to detain you from your other duties, so my apologies for the interruption."
"N-not at all, my Lord!" Fabian stammered, his brow beading with sweat. "There is no need for apologies. I have merely begun my projects, and I have spent a great deal of time just trying to figure out…"
"Fabian…"
"I cannot stop thinking about the multitude of concerns you must bear, my Lord! To trouble yourself with me…!"
"Fabian," Guilliman interrupted, a flicker of amusement in his keen blue eyes. "Breathe."
"Yes, of course," Fabian muttered, taking a deep, calming breath.
"Better?" Guilliman inquired. Fabian could only nod. Guilliman chuckled softly, a sound that, for all its power, was surprisingly human, as he settled into his grand chair. "Now. The true reason for your summons is that, in our last, rather rushed meeting, I failed to mention a recent development concerning your little… project. Her Imperial Highness, it seems, has taken a keen interest in this endeavour of ours. This… writing of history."
"Her Highness?" Fabian mumbled, a profound shock rippling through him. "Interested in… in my work?"
"Yes. My sister expressed a profound interest when I explained what I intended. So much so, she has requested that you be granted access to her own personal memoirs, to aid you in your pursuit of the unvarnished truth."
"The Princess's… memoirs?" Fabian whispered, utterly stunned, as Guilliman presented him with a colossal, leather-bound tome. It was so heavy that Fabian had to use both hands to hold it. He opened the first page, and his breath caught in his throat. The script, though in a peculiar, elegant hand, was unmistakably High Gothic, and the date.
"798.M30… By the Throne," Fabian whispered, his voice cracking with awe. He could read it, understand it, the words flowing with a clarity that defied their immense age. "My Lord, should I truly be entrusted with this? These are the Princess-Regent's private words, her very soul laid bare."
"My sister would not have entrusted this to me, Fabian, if she did not know precisely what she was doing," Guilliman replied softly. "She desires the truth. Not the poetic, romanticised, and… frankly, inaccurate versions of history. Not what the Ecclesiarchy believes happened. Nor what the Imperium, in its long, slow decay, has chosen to forget. But the truth."
Fabian felt the immense weight of the book in his hands, sensing it held not merely the Princess's words, but untold events, hidden truths that had remained buried for ten millennia. What further revelations, what anecdotes, what experiences, what raw emotions would he find within these ancient pages? He swallowed, a cold dread mixing with his scholarly excitement. To find something potentially heretical, to write it, what would the Ecclesiarchy, or worse, the Inquisition, do to him?
"This is… a profound responsibility, Lord Guilliman," Fabian whispered, his voice filled with a mixture of reverence and fear. "I shall do my utmost to honour it."
"I know you will. I trust that you will remain unbiased, that you will fulfil your duty to research, to investigate, and to provide an unvarnished, truthful account of our history. All of it, Fabian—the glorious, and the utterly horrible," Guilliman stated, his gaze unwavering.
"My Lord Guilliman," Fabian then asked, mustering a newfound courage, "if… if I were to require your own words to corroborate certain events described within this volume… would you be willing to do so?"
Guilliman hummed, a flicker of surprise in his eyes, quickly followed by a look of profound satisfaction. "Of course. When the time is right, when you have questions, I shall grant you an answer, to the very best of my abilities."
Fabian's face broke into a broad, radiant smile. He held a veritable goldmine in his hands, and he wondered at the sheer volume of history contained within the vast tome. It would take him years to read, to decipher, to fully comprehend, but he had been granted an unprecedented window into the mind and heart of the Princess, a direct link to the Imperium's zenith. And with the Lord Commander himself as a primary source? Fabian would not squander this opportunity. He would write the absolute truth. No candid, flowery words, no censoring of dark, inconvenient truths. No. He would write it all, as it was, and no more.
Part III – The Loom of Alliances
Within the vast, still-forming throne chamber of the Golden Tower, Aurelia gazed upon the nascent structure of her own seat of power. It was not a facsimile of the Golden Throne; its purpose was far more active, a nexus of command and cosmic interaction. Here, the great campaigns of the Imperium—the crusades, the wars, the delicate weaving of stability—would be orchestrated. It would be her hall of audience for the High Lords, the place from which her will would emanate. But the throne itself was more than a mere seat of authority; it was a sophisticated interface, designed to allow her to interact with both the Immaterium and the material world with greater safety and precision. Yet, its completion was still a distant prospect.
"The Emerald Throne?" she murmured, contemplating the name she had been considering for this ambitious project. The structure was not truly emerald, but its intricate lattice of psycho-conductive crystals, interwoven with Noverrium filaments, pulsed with a verdant, inner light. These were not mere gems, but sophisticated stabilisers, a complex matrix designed to anchor and channel her immense, primordial power. She looked around the cavernous chamber, a sense of quiet satisfaction blooming within her. It was progressing well, each day bringing it closer to completion. Soon, it would be ready.
Her gaze then fell upon the magnificent display crafted by Magos Delta, a masterpiece of art and technology that showcased the entire galaxy in breathtaking, almost living, detail. So precise was its representation that she could almost hear the insidious whispers of the Chaos Gods emanating from the projected image of the Great Rift.
"Father does not appear entirely convinced of my… exhaustive diplomacy mission," Aurelia mumbled softly, recalling her last communion with the Emperor upon his Golden Throne, a brief, concise, and pointed exchange.
He had understood, of course. He had seen the strategic value, the grim pragmatism of her proposed alliances. He knew, with an ancient weariness, that the Aeldari would always be, well, Aeldari—a race of profound arrogance and self-interest, yet bound by their own desperate struggle for survival. He did not trust them, not entirely. But he trusted them enough to comprehend the bigger picture. The Emperor saw the tactical advantage they could provide, a sharp, deadly scalpel to be wielded against a common foe. And the Aeldari, for all their pride, were not foolish enough to discard an opportunity for a temporary alliance with the Imperium, a chance to focus their dwindling strength on the true existential threats to their existence.
The T'au Empire, however, was another matter entirely. The Emperor, in his profound, ancient wisdom, and arrogance, held a deep distrust for their expansionist "Greater Good." Aurelia, in her own private, humble opinion, could see why: the T'au Empire, in its rigid, dogmatic pursuit of a singular ideology, was a bizarre, distorted mirror of the Imperium itself.
Would it be easy for these disparate powers to work together? Aurelia did not know. Tensions would undoubtedly be high. But at the same time, the stakes were now undeniably clear to all.
"The Craftworlds, Father, do not have the luxury of losing another home. They cannot afford another defeat," Aurelia had stated, her voice a soft, yet unyielding current in their psychic communion.
"And do we, daughter?" the Emperor had countered, his voice a low, resonant rumble. "They will use the Imperium's forces as a meat grinder. They will, without a doubt, place us before the enemy."
"I know. But, at this point, this entire war is a meat grinder before us. We are losing millions upon millions on hundreds of battlefields, and often, we lose regardless. But if we can ensure our soldiers' deaths are not in vain, if we can transform pyrrhic victories into meaningful strategic gains, it will be worth it. The Aeldari are running out of time, Father. I have seen it. And we… we simply have a little more time than they do."
"Daughter," the Emperor had warned, a note of caution in his voice, "I have told you not to blindly trust in foresight. Even if yours is more transparent, more unrestricted than most. The path of the future can blind you to the urgent realities of the present."
"I know, Father."
"Nevertheless. I understand. I see your point. At this juncture, we require… allies. We need to secure victories, to find a way to halt the galaxy's consumption by the ruinous powers. If a formal alliance with the Aeldari can grant us the time we so desperately need, so be it. The Aeldari and humanity are, in a strange way, bound together by the same destiny; either we both survive, or neither of us will. But the T'au… this young, ambitious race, has not yet truly faced the galaxy's horrors. Their leadership blinds its people to the real threats of the Warp, and though their presence there is minimal, it will swallow them up all the same. Their ignorance can be dangerous, and their Greater Good demands ceaseless expansion. This peace, this alliance with them… it will not last long enough."
"It won't, Father. But I just want it to last long enough for us to survive this night," Aurelia had replied, a profound, weary sadness in her voice.
She sighed, recalling the challenging conversation and their eventual, begrudging agreement. An alliance, however fragile, was necessary. Suppose the T'au Empire, the Aeldari Craftworlds, and the Imperium could join forces. In that case, they might at least have a chance of not dying separately.
"Truly, times of great madness bring forth even madder solutions," Aurelia mumbled, leaning on the cool surface of the digital map.
"It would not be the first time humanity and the Aeldari have joined forces… for a brief, desperate moment," Captain-General Trajann Valoris stated, his voice a low, steady rumble at her side.
"He does not trust them, Your Highness, but he perceives the undeniable value in them," her champion, Leontus Valeriad, spoke gently. Since becoming her champion and the High Castellan of the Lionguard, he had become not just her sworn protector but also a trusted confidant, a pillar of strength and a vital second opinion. Captain-General Trajann, too, had assumed a similar role, offering his own unique, often surprisingly insightful, perspective. It was a comfort to her to have such wise counsel. Leontus and Trajann, one embodying the perfection and ancient wisdom of the Custodes, the other the fresh, chaotic experience of a newly forged Chapter Master, offered her a balanced, invaluable view of the Imperium.
"Father is, above all else, pragmatic," Aurelia affirmed. "And at this desperate juncture, the Imperium must be pragmatic. I shall contact my brother later, to apprise him of my plans, but for now… what do you think of this, Lady Roskavler?" Aurelia asked, turning to the Master of the Administratum, one of the few remaining High Lords she truly trusted.
Lady Roskavler, who had been listening in quiet contemplation, finally spoke. "It is… highly unusual, Your Highness," she stated, her voice carefully measured.
"It must be, with the Imperium fractured, with hundreds of planets lost daily, with billions upon billions of souls perishing every day. We require something unusual," Aurelia countered, and Roskavler, for all her bureaucratic caution, could offer no logical refutation. Yet, she saw the immense political challenges, the deeply entrenched dogma of the Imperium, its fervent anti-xeno sentiment, a cultural poison so deeply rooted that the mere thought of a formal alliance with xenos would undoubtedly cause widespread tensions, perhaps even open rebellion.
"I understand entirely, Your Highness. But, as you must realise, this will cause significant problems with my fellow High Lords, especially with the Ecclesiarch… and certain factions within the Inquisition."
Aurelia nodded. "I know it will. Hopefully, the High Lords will perceive that this is for the ultimate benefit of the Imperium; we are bleeding from all sides. If we can close some of these wounds, it will be undeniably beneficial. We will have a better chance to survive."
Roskavler massaged her temples and sighed, a sound of profound weariness. "By the Throne, I understand it. The Imperium cannot afford more losses. The current attrition is already consuming the Imperium's strength, bite by agonising bite. It is, I concede, pragmatic. And heretical. And that is what concerns me."
"My Consul, Anna-Murza Jek, is currently in the Laurel systems, finalising certain matters. She should return soon. Once she does, I will draft the official writ for the High Lords to read and sign. If there are objections, please convey them to my Consul," Aurelia stated. Roskavler drew a deep breath and met the Princess's gaze.
"And I suppose you wish for me to… test the waters," Roskavler said, the statement a weary resignation, not a question. Aurelia nodded.
"Indeed. You are a respected and capable woman who can perceive the full picture. I have no doubt that the rest of the High Lords will, in time, see it too. Besides," Aurelia added, a hint of steel in her voice, "the Emperor has already agreed." Roskavler nodded, a grudging acceptance in her eyes.
"And if a significant problem arises, Your Highness? Particularly with some of the more… traditional members of the Senatorum?"
"I am not above compromise. I could have simply pushed this through without the support of the Senatorum Imperialis. However, I desire the full, unified support of all of you. So, hear their concerns, and we will find a way to address them," Aurelia stated. Roskavler nodded again, now armed with a small measure of leverage, a bone to throw to her more recalcitrant colleagues.
"I shall do my best, Your Highness. I will begin with Eos Ritira. The Ecclesiarch… he will need to be able to spin the… narrative. The Cardinals could yet prove our greatest allies in this entire, unprecedented ordeal," Roskavler mumbled, already contemplating the intricate political manoeuvring that lay ahead.
"Of course," Aurelia affirmed. "I shall contact my brother soon enough."
Aurelia looked at the digital map before her, her mind already consumed with the tense, but necessary, negotiations to come, particularly with the T'au Empire. She knew the High Lords would be less than pleased when they learned she intended to recognise the T'au's sphere of expansion. Yet, hopefully, they would understand that this recognition would allow her to control the T'au Empire, to draw clear borders, and to force a compromise that would halt the Greater Good's insidious expansion into Imperial space. Would it entirely prevent them? Of course not. But it would grant her a significant position in any future negotiations. She would be seen as a leader who could be reasoned with, a leader who finally spoke for the Imperium of Man, and who desired not just conflict, but stability. And with the Orks and Tyranids so close to their own borders, the T'au would be forced to compromise.
Aurelia knew the T'au would be willing to do so. They had tried in the past. Now, they could try again, with one who actually has authority in the Imperium.
They were technologically advanced, their military formidable, but they were a small empire in the vast, unforgiving expanse of the galaxy. The T'au Empire could not afford a significant, cataclysmic defeat. The Imperium could lose millions and still endure; the T'au could not afford a similar loss for their Fire Caste Warriors. The Imperium had been bleeding for millennia, yet it still stood, like a limping half-dead being. The T'au, on the other hand, could not afford to be swallowed by the Great Devourer, the Green Tide, or the encroaching Great Rift.
Aurelia, surprisingly, hoped they could reach an agreeable term. She truly hoped that the T'au and the Aeldari would find common ground. Perhaps, given her experiences with other xenos, her optimism was misplaced. But a grand alliance, even a fragile one, could yet prove beneficial to them all.
Aurelia would have to wait. And see.