As the counter-insurgency forces transmitted their astropathic choir, yet another report concerning the Skaven was dispatched toward Holy Terra. In truth, news of this nascent threat had reached Terra long ago. However, because the Skaven typically appeared in scattered, disorganized rabble rather than the world-ending bio-tides of a Tyranid Hive Fleet, the Imperium remained largely indifferent.
These sporadic incursions were often the work of isolated clans. Consequently, the Adeptus Terra had dismissed these new foes as a negligible xenos civilization. Intelligence regarding their activities sat buried at the very bottom of the High Lords' endless archives, smothered by the crushing weight of reports from across the galaxy.
Even Roboute Guilliman, the master of logistics and planetary governance, could not account for every scrap of data, despite working until his hair turned white with strain. Since the birth of the Great Rift, reports of xenos incursions on the Imperial frontier had become as numerous as the stars themselves. Had the Avenging Son attempted to personally process every single one, the sheer cognitive load would have surely claimed his life.
Thus, the astropathic message from Ornsworld remained buried beneath the mountain of bureaucracy in the Senatorum Imperialis, awaiting a chance rediscovery centuries later, only to likely wait several more centuries for actual processing.
Yet, within the Primarch's private sanctum in the Sanctum Imperialis, a strange forest suddenly manifested.
In a place where natural greenery had been extinct for millennia, such an anomaly was an immediate provocation. Hundreds of Adeptus Custodes, Sisters of Silence, and Astartes from the Imperial Fists and Ultramarines instantly encircled the eerie woodland, weapons leveled at the shifting shadows.
Guilliman, alerted to the breach, arrived with the Emperor's Sword unsheathed. However, as he drew near, he felt a psychic resonance he had not sensed in ten thousand years, a presence as familiar as his own heartbeat.
It was the psychic signature of his elder brother, the Master of the Dark Angels, the First Primarch: Lion El'Jonson.
Sure enough, a towering warrior emerged from the strange arboreal mist. He wore a hooded mantle over power armor forged in the distinct, knightly aesthetic of the First Legion. Though his head was bowed, obscuring his features, Guilliman felt a profound surge of emotion. He knew, beyond any doubt, that this was no imposter. This was his brother.
"Identify yourself, traveler! Why have you trespassed upon the Emperor's Rest?" a Custodian roared, his guardian spear leveled and humming with lethal intent.
Guilliman raised a hand, his voice a commanding boom. "He is no enemy. Lower your weapons!"
The Imperial Fists and Ultramarines obeyed instantly, though their confusion was palpable. The Custodes, however, hesitated; they did not tolerate unvetted intruders within the Palace walls.
The tall figure looked up, his gaze meeting that of a ten-thousand-year veteran of the Golden Guard. The Custodian's pupils contracted in shock. He lowered his weapon immediately, silenced by the sheer, freezing majesty radiating from the newcomer.
"Obey the Primarch's decree," the veteran commanded his brothers. Only then did the Custodes and the Null Maidens withdraw.
Once the area was cleared, Guilliman's stoic, marble-like expression finally softened. For the first time since assuming the regency of a dying empire, he looked truly relieved, as if a crushing weight had been momentarily lifted.
"My brother... I can scarcely believe it. Ten thousand years ago, I never imagined I would be so glad to see your face," Guilliman laughed, stepping forward to greet him.
The Lion removed his helm. His face was etched with gravity and exhaustion, yet his spirit seemed far more resilient than Guilliman's. While the Lion bore the mental scars of a tragic defeat, Guilliman was enduring the unending, bureaucratic nightmare of managing a collapsing civilization without a moment's respite.
Two Primarchs, the Lord Regent of the Imperium Sanctus and the Lord Protector of the Imperium Nihilus, had finally met.
Guilliman gripped the Lion's hand firmly. He was not surprised by how much the Lion had aged; he had seen far too many horrors and absurdities in this dark millennium to be shocked by mere wrinkles. The current state of the Imperium had already exhausted his capacity for disbelief.
"Lion, thank the Emperor you have returned. I need you. Our Father needs you. The Imperium needs the First Primarch!" Guilliman spoke with desperate fervor, clutching the Lion's hand as if he were a drowning man grasping at a lifeline.
The Lion's expression soured. From his side of the Rift, he had already learned of the Imperium's decay and Guilliman's resurrection. Content to act as a knight-errant protecting the weak in the darkness, he had no desire to return to Terra's political quagmire. He certainly did not want to be harnessed like a servitor to Guilliman's administrative machine.
"In truth, Roboute, I think you are doing well enough. I have no desire to waste my strength squabbling with treacherous high lords. I prefer to solve problems with my blade," the Lion said, brusquely shaking off Guilliman's hand.
Undeterred, the Lord Regent maintained a diplomatic smile. He had no intention of letting this "reinforcement" slip away.
"Of course, brother, I understand perfectly. But come inside first," Guilliman urged, taking the Lion by the arm. "I shall announce this glorious news to the Imperium, and then we shall go before our Father to seek His counsel."
"Be silent!" the Lion snapped. Then, his voice turned grave. "I have returned for a matter of extreme urgency. It concerns the very fate of the Imperium."
Guilliman halted. If something had shaken the Lion to this degree, it was no mere border skirmish.
The Lion clapped his hands. Two Risen emerged from the forest, carrying the stiffened, grotesque corpses of two Skaven.
Guilliman studied the creatures. His mind, as precise as a Cogitator, scanned his memory banks but found no match for this specific xenos breed. He turned an inquisitive gaze back to his brother.
"These are the enemies I encountered on the other side of the Great Rift," the Lion explained, his face darkening with the memory. "My sons were engaged with Abaddon's Black Legion and a Great Daemon named Vashtorr, but these xenos intervened mid-campaign."
He paused, the admission of a tactical withdrawal stinging his pride. "At first, I thought them mere warp-tainted vermin. But then they appeared again in the Nachmund Gauntlet. I witnessed their foul power firsthand. They utilized an unknown energy to devastate my forces, forcing a retreat that the Dark Angels shall never forget, nor forgive."
"I scoured the Nihilus for their warren, until I witnessed loyal Imperial warriors transform into these... things before my eyes. I feel the Warp within them, the same stench of corruption and betrayal that clung to Horus and his traitors. But the essence of the Empyrean they carry is... different. Entirely foreign. Do you understand what this implies, Roboute?"
Guilliman's expression became utterly solemn. "It means... that perhaps within the Warp, a new malevolent power has risen of which we are entirely ignorant?"
"Exactly," the Lion said, placing a heavy hand on Guilliman's shoulder. "I will aid you in this hunt, for I seek vengeance. We must uncover the truth of these 'rat-spawn.' Only here, on Terra, can we aggregate the data of the entire galaxy to find them."
Guilliman reflected deeply. He realized he had seen reports of these rat-like xenos before, brief glimpses of data he had deemed irrelevant. Tales of man-sized rats kidnapping citizens from hive depths had seemed like mere planetary folklore, unworthy of a Regent's limited time.
Until now.