The sky over Sol went to war. Ullanor's noon was memory; midnight found its hour. Walls that had been geometry became faith, then prayer, then simple breath held against breaking.
Against Sanguinius's counsel, against Dorn's plans, against the Emperor's silence, Aurelia did something unwise and human: she warped alone to the Vengeful Spirit, because she asked herself to do it, her power allowed it. Her strength was thought and presence, not blade. Still, she hoped. She kept her palm to a bulkhead as if it were a living thing and told herself—once, twice—that hope was not a foolishness. The vox‑nets she had woven now carried only screams and the flat sound of broken channels; where her Choir‑Current should have soothed, there was only static and teeth.
The corridors were wrong—longer than they were, and shorter, and hungry. Lights arrived before they shone; shadows waited like decisions she did not want to make. She walked until the ship decided she had found him, until the air changed the way it does before a storm.
"Horus," she said. Not Warmaster, not warlord. "Brother."
He turned. The thing riding him smiled first. "You should have stayed in your gardens."
"I came to bring you home."
"Home?" He laughed, cruel and surprised. "Little sister, you are Father's favorite servitor. You obey. You glow. You forgive. You will forgive me, too?"
She stepped close enough to touch his face. "I will forgive you when you stop. Come back. We will make the stopping together."
Horus's smile thinned. "Forgiveness is long gone," he said. "I know what Father hid from us—what he hid from you. Blind hope won't mend this. It's stupid, little sister. Naive."
Aurelia didn't look away. "Then let it be naive," she breathed. "If the choice is between a clever cruelty and a foolish kindness, I'll take the kindness and wear the fool. Hope isn't a cure; it's a way to stand. It's the refusal to become what hurt us. I believe we can stop—because someone has to believe first. I will be that someone, even if I stand alone. I would rather be naive than cruel."
Horus's eyes hardened. "Hope failed you when you failed us," he said. "You had the reach to end this—to see beyond, to learn, to change—and you chose chains. You chose the rules of a man who thinks you a tool. That is your crime: all that power, and you did nothing."
The words landed like a blow. Aurelia flinched, hurt plain on her face; some small, honest part of her agreed, and the admission hollowed her voice. "Maybe," she whispered. "Maybe I did. But even so… I will not become what you've become." She drew a breath that shook. "I know my failures. I will carry them—every one. If you stop, if you turn, I will learn, and I will spend the rest of my life becoming someone you could be proud of. It isn't too late for you. It isn't too late for me. It isn't too late for any of us."
For a heartbeat something old looked out through his eyes—a man who had once carried her on his shoulder and taught her a word in the language of hungry streets, a man who called her a small, private name no one else heard. It reached for her and almost made it. Then the voices came back, a tide with hooks, and the ship seemed to lean toward them.
"No more stories," Horus whispered, almost kind, and the Talon of Horus found her body. The claws punched through silk and bone with a wet crack; air fled her like a candle blown. She made no scream—only a small, involuntary gurgle as bright blood slipped over her lip and pattered against his plate. Her hand lifted, small and steady, and she set her palm against his cheek while more blood threaded from the corner of her mouth. The laurel worked into her glove left a faint red print—half oil, half red—on his skin. "It's too late for me," he said, almost to himself.
"Brother," she said softly.
He laid her down as if laying down a weapon he loved. He brushed hair from her forehead the way a brother does in a memory that hurts to touch. For three breaths he stared at his hands as if they were not his. "What did I just do?" he asked the dead air, and for a slivered instant he looked terrified of himself.
Elsewhere on the ship an angel walked toward his death. Elsewhere still a god made of will prepared to spend the last of Himself, not weeping his mistakes, there was not time. Horus straightened; the moment passed. The tide took him. There was no turning back.
And for the next 10,000 years, the Imperium would suffer Horus's ultimate sin.
Until, the Laure of Terra, the Princess's returns.
Malcador — Last Entry from the Ledger of Terra
There is work that ends a man and work that finishes the world. I have been given both.
I am told the Princess fell aboard the Vengeful Spirit, by Horus's own hand. The message came thin and bleeding through the vox—enough to wound, not enough to deny. I write this line so that some witness exists beyond memory.
The Emperor goes now to meet His son, and Sanguinius walks with Him. He has set me to the Golden Throne in His stead while He steps into the storm. I know what the Throne asks; I have watched it eat kings, and it will gladly eat a regent. I will sit. I will hold the locks as long as hands can hold.
My ledgers have always balanced, but some columns will not resolve. I kept truths from her at His command. I called it necessity. I called it mercy. I watched her starve for the word why and praised the bread she baked from silence. This is my small guilt, and it is not small to me.
Yet I will spend what remains of me to buy them minutes enough to matter. If there is a world on the far side of this hour, it will be because the price was paid without counting.
She once spoke of a quiet room beyond names—a place of stars and still pools where light thinks before it shines. She said it was not the warp and not the web, only hers. If there is any justice left in the sum of things, her ember has gone there to breathe. If there is any grace, it will return when Terra needs a sunrise.
A long night is coming. We will set candles where we can.
— Malcador the Sigillite, Regent of Terra, last line set before the Throne
Author's note!
Hello, I try to make her overpowerful, but in a way that makes sense. I really try to keep the lore as canon as possible, with my character and all of that. I do hope I didn't miss anything. If so, please let me guys know, Warhammer 40k lore is so full of retconned as well, books, likeashit ton of books. Still, I wanted to make something fun, something that all of you can enjoy, and hopefully liked it to see more!
So, tell me what you think of the character. I do hope her power makes sort of sense, as well, that she was still a child. Well, not a "child" but naive and dormant. But this is just the beginning. After all, 10,000 years is a lot for someone to grow. Alright, see you all soon! And thanks for reading!