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Chapter V – The Cleansing Fire of Responsibility
Part I - New Dawn
The day of reckoning arrived with a swiftness that surpassed Aurelia's expectations. The High Lords, in their monumental, almost pathological ignorance, had truly been staggeringly foolish. To believe that a clandestine coup, orchestrated to regress the Imperium to its former, glorious stagnation, could unfold without her absolute knowledge or tacit approval was beyond comprehension. Aurelia considered this with a chilling clarity. In the twisted intellect of Irthu Haemotalion, the previous Master of the Administratum, she discerned the pervasive delusion: ten millennia of slow decay, of grinding despair, had, in their minds, validated their belief that maintaining the status quo– which they termed the "Static Tendency" – was the path to ensure the Imperium's survival for another ten millennia. The sheer, audacious inanity of such thought was infuriating.
Aurelia couldn't fathom how these High Lords, these relics of a bygone era, could genuinely believe that a small, calculated rebellion against her brother, her First Consul and the Lord Commander of the Imperium, would be tolerated. Or that she, the Absolute Regent, would accept it as if she were a mere figurehead of bureaucracy, allowing them to pursue their antiquated ambitions unopposed. Yet, she reminded herself, ten millennia of stagnation, of ignorance, had reduced humanity to a spiritual nadir, a point where even during the terrifying Age of Strife, such collective stupidity had not been the norm.
Her own consciousness, attuned to the very fabric of existence, had expanded in her waking state. She now perceived future, past, and present with breathtaking detail, a vast tapestry of causality constantly unfolding before her. Keeping herself grounded in the present, in the fragile reality she inhabited, while simultaneously navigating this boundless prescience, was a profound, ceaseless challenge. To be omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent was the ultimate dream of every aspiring god. But for Aurelia, who could encompass all of that and more, it was an immense annoyance. One could not be all of that without ceasing to be a singular, sentient individual. To be all was to be precisely that: all. And Aurelia did not wish to be all. She simply wished to be herself.
A perplexing paradox, no doubt, for any lesser being, but one she embraced in constant internal debate. Nonetheless, Aurelia knew she must eventually create tools to manage this overwhelming power, to refine its application without consuming herself. But not now. For now, she must simply endure and cleanse the manifest stupidity of the humanity she so desperately sought to save.
Aurelia sat in a temporary command cell, a small, austere monastery sanctum. A Tech-Priestess, her personal Omnissiah's envoy, moved with fluid, cybernetic grace, ensuring Aurelia was equipped with every necessary communication device: always linked, always listening, always capable of reaching any point in the Imperium, or beyond. The pervasive chatter of the Senatorum filled her auditory feeds. The voice of Irthu Haemotalion resonated through her internal vox-caster, delivering a pontificating speech. He spoke of how the High Lords had always been the true, unyielding protectors of Terra, how their centuries of vigilant service stood as testament to their blessed status, their divine favour from the God-Emperor Himself. Aurelia rolled her eyes, a gesture of profound exasperation at the self-serving rhetoric.
The word "heresy," she mused, was being bandied about far too freely in this dark millennium. If anyone knew the true extent of her thoughts concerning the Imperial Cult, or the horrifying concept of her father as a god, the Inquisition would undoubtedly declare her the greatest Heretic of all time. But that, she knew, was a discussion for another epoch. More pressing was the insidious nature of Haemotalion's current address, for even by the narrow, zealous standards of these very High Lords, his actions now verged on treason.
"Your Highness, your transport is arriving in three minutes," Leontus Valeriad, her devoted Champion, announced, his voice tight, barely concealing a simmering anger. Aurelia's amusement remained hidden, but she offered a slight nod.
"It seems they have finally chosen to expose themselves," Aurelia murmured, listening to Haemotalion's increasingly strident pronouncements. "They acted with haste, driven by fear. They must have sensed their window of opportunity closing. Shame. Stagnation invariably breeds incompetence and a debilitating inability to adapt. It is a malaise my father deeply loathed." Aurelia sighed deeply, a profound weariness settling upon her. She knew, with chilling certainty, that this nascent "Hexarchy," this cabal of corrupt High Lords, would inevitably lead to further deaths. It was a solemn duty, one that she would have preferred to avoid, but such cancerous ideology had to be surgically excised from the Imperium's very root.
Haemotalion's voice swelled, booming across the Senatorum. "And so, it is our solemn, holy duty! To guide the Imperium into a new age, into a new ability to survive! It was under our wise stewardship that humanity learned true safety. It was under our careful governance that Terra found a modicum of peace! And to restore the glorious times of the past! Our Highness must be compelled to see reason, to truly grasp what the God-Emperor demands of all of us! The Senatorum Imperialis has led humanity for ten thousand years, and it must continue to lead, for countless millennia more!"
Aurelia arched an elegant eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of amusement touching her lips. Did he genuinely believe such empty rhetoric held any sway among the desperate populace? Had her efforts not taken root? Her extensive visits to the battle-scarred sectors of Terra had deliberately cultivated a new narrative, a powerful counterpoint to such stagnant ideologies. It was a meticulously executed strategy, planned months ago when her prescient visions had first shown her this very scene. By showcasing her humanity, by granting them a tangible taste of a hopeful future, the concept of clinging to the status quo had lost its appeal. People had tasted the oranges of hope, the apples of renewal, the strawberries of a brighter tomorrow.
Aurelia had subtly twisted hope itself, transforming it into a sharp blade in the hearts of Terra's populace. They now saw her as more than a distant symbol; she was a living tangency, a rule, an authority that resonated with their very souls. And as much as she resented the necessity, the image of her persona as holy, as the divine Princess-Regent, granted her immense political leverage against these entrenched powers. The Ecclesiarchy, despite her profound dislike and inherent detestation for its pervasive dogma, possessed an undeniable utility: it held systems in check, controlled billions, and, most importantly, disciplined the very High Lords themselves. None, not even the most arrogant, would dare overtly defy the daughter of the God-Emperor, the Princess-Regent who conversed directly with Him on His Golden Throne. She would continue to wield that unwieldy institution until the precise, opportune moment arrived for its complete dissolution.
This was a profoundly different strategy from the one her father might have employed. The Emperor of old, she knew, would have incinerated the Ecclesiarchy to ashes long ago. But her father, now a sentient but imprisoned will, understood the grim importance of faith, however misguided, in binding humanity together, preventing its utter collapse into despair and the hungry maw of Chaos. The Imperial Cult, in its fractured, fervent form, was a chaotic glue, and to remove it now, with humanity's countless enemies poised to strike, would be an act of galactic suicide.
"There is nothing more to be done here," Aurelia sighed, a note of grim resolve entering her voice. She watched as an Orion Assault dropship transport descended, its Noverrium-infused hull gleaming, a unique, multi-use aircraft personally crafted for the Adeptus Custodes a long time ago, and behind it, a group of Lionguard Thunderhawks, robust enough for a theatre of war, yet elegant enough to be the Princess-Regent's escorts.
"Your Highness," Leontus stated, extending his massive gauntlet. Aurelia took his hand, allowing herself to be guided towards the waiting Thunderhawk. As they walked, her mind focused on the immediate future. The Hexarchy's imminent betrayal, she knew, was not her fault, but their actions had compelled her to order the cleansing of Terra's soil of their treacherous grasp. For that, she must issue commands she would have preferred never to speak.
Malcador's ancient words echoed in her mind, clear as the chimes in the Basilica Liminalis: "To spare the guilty at scale, Princess, is to condemn the innocent at scale. Know which ledger you answer to. And choose accordingly."
Aurelia recalled her old query: "But what if I don't want to hurt people?"
And Malcador's stark reply, imbued with millennia of weary wisdom: "Princess, you fear to harm; I fear what your fear will let die. Heiress of Terra, you were not crowned to be harmless—you were crowned to be responsible. Choose. Cut. And carry the pain. That is how you save your people, and the Imperium."
Aurelia, at the time of the Heresy, had believed she understood the profound weight of that counsel. Time, and the searing fires of civil war, had proven her wrong, illuminating the terrible cost of choice. To let one planet fall for the salvation of two, to sacrifice a system to allow others to fortify, had resulted in billions of deaths. It was a weight that had crushed her. But now, she stood resurrected. And now, she would do whatever was necessary to save them all. Whatever the cost. Whatever the necessary action.
Aurelia stopped, turning to face her Champion.
"Leontus," she commanded, her voice calm, devoid of all emotion, cold and precise as an assassin's blade. "Assemble a small, trusted team from the Lionguard and the Officio Assassinorum. Eliminate all key personnel of Haemotalion's household and all others demonstrably involved in the Hexarchy. Cleanse their residences. Intercept all communications. Interrogate those close to them for further connections, for any lingering roots of treachery. Purge it all. Ensure no supporter, no sympathiser, no willing co-conspirator remains alive. The Officio Assassinorum will deal with the High Lords themselves. But I will not countenance this act of betrayal ever again. Not one soul who conspired against us will remain."
Leontus Valeriad met her gaze, his expression unblinking, unreadable beneath his helmet. He offered a swift, resolute nod, pure determination radiating from his stance.
"Understood, Your Highness. It shall be done."
Aurelia stepped into the waiting Thunderhawk, the ramp hissing shut behind her. She understood, with profound clarity, the magnitude of the actions she had just set into motion. The coming days would be filled with grim duty, with the arduous task of updating Guilliman, discerning who among the High Lords truly remained loyal, and who had fallen into this treacherous abyss.
"Imperium Aeterna," Aurelia whispered to herself, her mind already moving to the next steps. "It's over." The words were not of finality, but of the close of one chapter, the beginning of another. She would rebuild, step by arduous step. And every individual who sought to preserve the corrosive stagnation, to cripple the burgeoning hope, would be eliminated. For hope was not merely a word, but a profound action. And to achieve a better tomorrow, one must, if necessary, cast the ashes of the past aside. By force, if needed.
Part II – A Meal of Truth and Consequence
Aurelia sat within one of the Golden Tower's sprawling gardens, an impossible Eden blooming beneath Terra's ash-choked sky, a sanctuary meticulously maintained by her Hestia Sisters. Around her, a silent, glittering cordon of protectors moved with liquid grace. Adeptus Custodes and Sisters of Silence formed the innermost ring, golden statues carved from living bronze, poised not in stillness, but in a coiled readiness to eradicate any threat that dared approach the Princess-Regent. Beyond them, squads of Lionguard, gold and white panoplies shimmering amongst the alien flora, patrolled with the quiet precision of hunters. At the garden's myriad entrances, detachments of Imperial Fists and Ultramarines stood guard, their gazes sharp, inquisitive, sweeping every approaching figure.
They had forged a symbiotic rhythm, each group a distinct entity, yet moving in perfect, lethal unison. Failure, they knew, was not an option; the life of the Imperium itself rested upon the fragile light of their Princess.
Closer still, within Aurelia's immediate, inner circle, stood the Hestias. Arrayed in their ceremonial Battle-Sister armour, their weapons held at parade rest, they radiated a fervent, unwavering zeal. They would, Aurelia often mused with a wry inward smile, readily shoot out the sun itself were it to cause Her Highness the slightest discomfort—a terrifying devotion that left even the pragmatic Custodes feeling a subtle unease in their presence.
Among these militant sisters, a dedicated cohort of Hestias, serving as Aurelia's personal handmaidens for the day, had meticulously arranged a lunch table amidst the open air. It was a rare indulgence, a day when the Princess wished to be away from the ceaseless demands of her desk, away from the weight of the Imperium's future.
None could deny the Hestias' unwavering dedication. When Aurelia provided them with a simple culinary list, detailing specific dishes from ancient Terra, outlining preparation methods, and even the precise sourcing of ingredients, the kitchen staff—veteran chefs and fervent cooks alike—executed her wishes with absolute, perfect precision. Ingredients, once thought lost to the ages, were procured through a meticulous network of Golden Tower orders, from the finest agri-worlds of the Segmentum Solar, ensuring the Princess-Regent's table was always laden with sustenance of the highest quality. This bounty was cultivated not just from the few remaining agri-sectors, but from Aurelia's hundreds of botanical gardens within the Golden Tower and Terra, places where seeds retrieved from the Basilica Liminalis—seeds of long-extinct plants, fruits, and vegetables from Old Earth—flourished anew, not only to feed the Princess, but all who served within the Tower and, indeed, many within the hives of Terra.
The Mistress of Nourishment, a formidable Sister Superior bearing numerous campaign scars, imbued her devotion with a culinary zeal. The fire of the stove was her consecrated weapon, her battle waged against delays in nutrient shipments and against any junior cook who dared oversalt the Princess's dishes. They prepared Aurelia's weekly meals in advance—breakfast, lunch, afternoon tea, and dinner—with the unwavering zeal and pride characteristic of the Adepta Sororitas.
Aurelia, however, sought not only to satisfy a deep, inherited memory of forgotten Terran culinary artistry but also to ensure no food was wasted. She regularly instructed that any excess be distributed among the Golden Tower's countless inhabitants.
She was not, however, eating alone. Across the table, invited personally by the Princess-Regent herself, sat Consul Anna-Murza Jek. A wealth of matters, both immediate and delicate, lay between them, demanding discourse.
Consul Jek gazed at the culinary array before her, a bewildered wonder in her eyes. She had never witnessed such dishes, their intricate beauty and exotic aroma utterly alien to her experience. She felt a momentary uncertainty, unsure how to even begin.
"Go on, Consul Jek, before the warmth escapes," Aurelia's voice, a soft, encouraging melody, prompted, as she delicately took up a golden utensil and began to eat a strange, yet exquisite dish.
Jek watched, then hesitantly followed her Princess's lead. The dish before them consisted of long, golden strands, boiled and lightly salted, adorned with strange, perfectly spherical meatballs, all generously coated in a peculiar, vibrant red sauce. Like everything else on the table, it was a mystery, but Jek trusted her Princess implicitly.
Her first bite dissolved into a symphony of unexpected pleasures, a mouthwatering burst of flavours that defied her grim experience of the 41st Millennium. Truly delicious.
"Mm. Exquisite. Please convey to Sister Severina that she has, once again, outdone herself. This is truly delectable," Aurelia murmured to a nearby Hestia Sister, who bowed deeply, her pride palpable.
Consul Jek tasted and savoured each bite, finding herself utterly entranced by the strange, wonderful meal.
"I have never tasted anything quite like this before," Jek confessed, meticulously dabbing her mouth with a delicate napkin, displaying an innate etiquette.
"Fasciae Auratae," Aurelia stated, a hint of ancient wisdom in her tone. "That is how it was known. The original name, long lost to the annals of humanity's true history, was created long before humanity ever dreamed of voidships or stellar empires."
"It is, then, a true privilege to taste such a relic," Jek replied with a smile, finding common ground in shared wonder. For a few moments, both ate in comfortable silence, respecting the warmth of the food, ensuring none was wasted to the omnipresent chill of Terra's filtered air.
"Not a relic, Consul. Pasta," Aurelia corrected with a knowing, subtle smirk. Jek's brow furrowed, the word utterly foreign to her lexicon. Aurelia, sensing the linguistic divide, gently steered the conversation. "The Hexarchy, what transpired mere days ago, seems to have instilled within you a measure of doubt concerning your abilities as my Consul."
Jek's body flinched, a subtle tightening of her posture, but to Aurelia's quiet satisfaction, her face remained calm, if a little solemn. It had been a baptism of fire, a brutal first test. Jek had discovered the hard way the profound isolation of her position, her vulnerability as the Princess's voice within the Senatorum Imperialis. To be ensnared by the conspirators, to feel repeatedly pushed aside and dismissed, had cultivated a deep-seated feeling of inadequacy despite her powerful title. Yet, she now sat in the radiant presence of the Princess, who spoke with a sagacity born of cosmic awareness, as if intimately familiar with every detail of the future's unfolding. Jek wondered: who was I to deny Her Highness's power to perceive tomorrow?
And despite her profound failure to fully halt, or even truly expose, the initial stages of the plot, Jek found a quiet pride in her ability to finally speak, to uphold her duty, to feel a surge of newfound confidence in the face of daunting adversity. She resolved that she would not fail again, yet the shame of her perceived inadequacies clung to her.
"I have re-evaluated the entire situation numerous times within my mind. I cannot begin to articulate the profound shame and anger I feel at my own failings," Jek confessed, her voice honest, tinged with genuine melancholy. "I trusted the wrong individuals. I was manipulated. I allowed the Lionguard, who accompanied me, to be placed in direct peril due to my blindness and my ineptitude. I believe, Princess, that I should be punished, and I would gladly accept any sentence."
"But you will not be punished," Aurelia replied, her voice firm, unequivocal. "My Lionguard fulfilled their sacred duty, and they are now recovering. You were indeed deceived, Anna-Murza. Truly. However, I have neither punished nor dismissed you, for there is a nascent greatness within you, my dear Jek. You are learning, you are adapting, and you will grow. This painful lesson, I understand, was a rock you needed to stumble upon to truly become the woman you are destined to be."
Jek nodded slowly, processing Aurelia's words. She grasped the underlying truth: her Princess truly could perceive the future, not just in fragments, but in sweeping chapters—a power many could only dream of. Jek recalled whispers of Aurelia "reading chapters," not whole books. She still struggled to fully comprehend what "reading a chapter" meant, but she realised now that the Princess had foreseen the Hexarchy's plot months ago. And, perhaps, Lord Guilliman, as her First Consul and brother, had also been privy to this prescience. It would not surprise her that they had allowed the coup to unfold, meticulously, to expose the traitors and all who followed them. Jek had, unwittingly, played her part in their complex, strategic game.
Aurelia perceived the doubt in Jek's eyes, and the dawning realisation of her role as a pawn in a larger, intricate board game. It was a truth Aurelia found herself constantly wrestling with. This very pragmatism, this cold calculation of outcomes, this necessity of secrecy, of allowing certain events to transpire for a greater good, even at the cost of innocent suffering—it often chafed against her profound empathy. It demanded she play with lives, compelling her to pretend it was not fundamentally against her very nature, against what she ought not to be.
"I will not compel you to remain, Jek," Aurelia stated, her voice gentle, yet holding the weight of infinite choices. Jek looked up, surprised, confusion clouding her features.
"Your Highness?" Jek asked, bewildered.
"It is the terrible necessity of having to, at times, allow events to unfold in a predetermined way, purely so they might reach a crucial juncture, a point where all the suffering coalesces into profound worth. To glimpse the future cultivates such problems: the relentless need to know what is to come, and the inability to divest from a magnificent outcome, even at the cost of unimaginable suffering along that path. There will be times, Jek, when manipulating certain trajectories will be unavoidable. People will need it. Sometimes, I will be forced to do it. And there will be times when you will be afraid of what I am truly capable of," Aurelia confessed, her gaze sweeping over the delectable food on the table. The simple pleasure of the meal, its exquisite flavours, allowed her to feel utterly human, content in that brief, precious moment. But as she looked at the vast banquet before her, she also saw the symbolic representation of her boundless power—an endless feast she could devour by herself, yet still never be full.
It was, in a way, the perpetual paradox of her existence.
That was the line Aurelia constantly walked. To remain human, or to embrace her limitless potential. The thought of "just one more bite, and I will be satisfied," was a pervasive lie that many, including herself, had told themselves. The idea that if she finished her meal, she could simply snap her fingers, conjure another, and lie to herself that she was in control—it was a terrifying illusion. Aurelia was confronted by powers that had no compunction about utilising every available resource to annihilate the Imperium. It would be staggeringly foolish, irresponsible, and profoundly naive to believe that mere hope, however pure, would grant them victory. Aurelia still believed in hope, profoundly, irrevocably. But there would be times when she had to wield her terrifying might, to strike back with overwhelming force.
Aurelia knew she would never trade her fundamental humanity for victory. But there would be times when she had to be utterly pragmatic, to don the mask not merely of a Princess, but of a hardened soldier. After all, the Imperium, in its very essence, was forged through relentless war. To believe she could save humanity without ever fully deploying her power, simply by offering hugs and kind words, was a profoundly foolish notion.
"That, Jek, is one of the profound reasons I seldom consult the future, only when it is absolutely vital to discern the next crucial step or impending danger. Seeing the future can lead to unforeseen perils and untold misfortunes. I refuse to use human lives as mere pawns to protect humanity; that would render me no better than the Ruinous Powers who so gladly do so at will. I apologise for keeping this a secret from you, Jek. I apologise for involving you in this gambit, for using you."
Jek recoiled, a profound shock gripping her as the Princess-Regent, the perfect, almost divine being, offered such a deeply felt apology. Around them, the Hestia Sisters experienced a surge of psychic dissonance, their devoted minds grappling with the unimaginable concept of their flawless Princess apologising for using a mortal life. In their zeal, they existed to be used by their Princess, to fulfil her every unspoken desire. To hear her apologise was a bewildering, almost heretical surprise. Yet, in their twisted perception, it was also a divine act: the all-seeing Princess, who could command the future, choosing to restrain her boundless power, to sacrifice a part of her godhood, purely to remain human amongst them. That, they believed, was truly beautiful, the ultimate sacrifice for her humanity.
The Lionguard, hearing her confession through their private vox-channels, perceived it as irrefutable proof of their lady's profound wisdom. Her immense power, though at her fingertips, was wielded with gentle precision, with profound caution, never with arrogance. The Princess used her formidable weapons with unparalleled care; that was their unwavering belief.
The Custodes, however, who had never truly perceived the Emperor as a God, simply saw the Princess's luminous essence and were immensely grateful that she was wise enough to refuse the path their father had taken. Her self-imposed restraint was a crucial limit, a line she would never cross. Even then, her innate power was sufficient to draw the Emperor's shattered will together, rendering him not fully whole, but remarkably cohesive. Her mere presence also brought a profound tranquillity to the Immaterium, enveloping Terra, Mars, and hundreds of systems across the Sol System in her protective light, shielding them from the corrosive touch of Chaos. Navigators, venturing into these stabilised lanes, often spoke of the serene peace and quiet of the void, like an empty, undisturbed sea.
The Princess, they knew with absolute certainty, was not a God. But she was undeniably more than a simple human, more profound than the image she presented to the unknowing masses. She was a being crafted by the Emperor with the explicit intention of not being worshipped, but of representing hope in humanity's intrinsic ability to transcend its own perceived limitations. She was a perfect creation of reason, a testament to proof, and a galactic power beyond compare—a future for humanity's true place in the vast, unforgiving galaxy.
Jek swiftly replied to Aurelia's apology, her voice firm, resolute. "My Princess, please do not apologise for it. I would have willingly offered my very life for this cause, if it were necessary!"
Aurelia sighed deeply, a soft reprimand. "Do not speak of giving your life away so easily, Jek."
"I will do it for you, Princess!" Jek declared, her voice imbued with a newfound, unwavering determination. "I believe. I know, Your Highness, with every fibre of my being, that humanity's chance for a new dawn rests upon you. You are that new morning." Jek stated this with unshakeable conviction. In her soul, there was no person who could reunite the Imperium and instil the desperate hope it needed more than the Princess-Regent. If her life was the cost of humanity's chance for a new day, then so be it.
Aurelia's gaze, galaxies flickering in her eyes, intensified, focusing keenly on Jek. "I appreciate your words, Anna-Murza, I truly do. And your faith in me is of profound importance. I simply wish for you to comprehend that if you remain my Consul, you will inevitably be placed in such positions. You will witness the true extent of what I am capable of, and you will understand precisely why the Ruinous Powers of the Warp both detest and truly fear me."
Those words carried a multitude of meanings for the silent audience around them: a promise, but also a stark warning. The Princess's powers, those abilities that were not of the Warp, yet so terrifyingly potent, evoked a myriad of unspoken questions. Some, who had heard legends of her creating entire star systems with a thought, could not help but wonder what further depths her power held. None of them had truly witnessed the Princess's power in its full, unleashed glory. They felt her aura, yes, that soft, divine light of peace and serenity—the same one that now calmed hundreds of systems around Terra, pushing back Chaos, stabilising the Warp, feeding the Astronomican's light, and restoring the Emperor's will.
But what else could the Princess do? Why was she afraid of losing herself to it? Why did she fear truly becoming more? Could it be that she feared becoming a being so powerful that she would be utterly divorced from the very humanity she yearned to save? Had Aurelia, in her visions, seen what she would become, a being beyond even her current comprehension? None knew. Perhaps they would never understand.
But one thing was clear: the Princess would never relinquish that small, precious blaze of humanity within her. That flame, ignited by her father, remained resolute.
"I thank you, Your Highness, for revealing so much of yourself," Jek said, her voice steady with renewed determination, hope radiant in her eyes. "But I wish to remain at your side, in whatever form you deem necessary for me to serve."
Aurelia leaned back, a soft, approving nod. "Alright. Thank you."
Aurelia thought, wondering if she had made the right choice, both in her revelation and in trusting Jek's unwavering resolve. She would continue to trust and hope for the best. Perhaps her father would concur with her chosen restraints, a discussion she intended to have with him later. But she also knew she bore a profound responsibility: to herself, and to those around her. It would be irresponsible to wield her power in the material world without the means to fully concentrate it, to manage its potentially destructive impact. She was not merely afraid of harming her own fragile physical form; she was afraid of harming the innocent.
Aurelia realised she must find a way to harness discrete, manageable pools from her vast, infinite ocean of power, to apply them safely within the constraints of the material world.
And a new idea, born of necessity and wisdom, began to take root in her mind.
Interlude — Muster at Terra (Fabian Guelphrain) During the gathering of Forces of the Indomitus Crusade above Terra
Fabian Guelphrain had, by temperament and intellectual conviction, cultivated a dangerous habit: questioning. For a scholar entangled in the labyrinthine bureaucracy of the Adeptus Administratum, and in an age defined by rigid dogma, this was a profoundly perilous trait. His relentless pursuit of the unvarnished truth, his refusal to accept convenient fictions or whispered sanctimony, had consistently led him into treacherous waters. Now, in the bleak dawn of M42, his intellectual honesty had brought him to the precipice of ruin, flirting with accusations of heresy that carried the very real weight of an Inquisitorial execution.
Yet, in truth, none could truly fault his desperate curiosity. The Imperium had stumbled into a new, terrifying age. The Indomitus Crusade was not merely a military campaign; it was a desperate, epoch-defining gamble. A vast conglomerate of perils and incomprehensible truths now threatened to overwhelm what little sanity remained. Fabian's exhaustive research into the true, uncorrupted history of the Imperium had inevitably led him to countless dead ends, stifled not only by the deliberate obfuscation of long-lost eras but by the crushing weight of institutional bureaucracy and the ever-present shadow of heresy.
"Surely, learning history should not be deemed heretical," Fabian muttered to himself, his voice a low, bitter sound swallowed by the vast, impersonal corridors of the Imperial Palace. He had, in moments of frustration, perhaps unwisely opined that the Imperium, like many of ancient Terra's grandest empires, was fundamentally prone to inevitable collapse. Such sentiments had earned him the profound loathing of his more orthodox colleagues within the Administratum. His choice was clear: embrace Lord Guilliman's urgent summons to join the Indomitus Crusade, or face the swift, merciless wrath of the Inquisition. The decision was not difficult.
Fabian paused, his gaze lifting to the ash-choked skies of Terra, where countless ships now scarred the polluted canvas. He saw a relentless stream of transports, hulking void-forts, and sleek cruisers ascending, disappearing into the leaden clouds. "More?" he murmured, a note of bewildered awe in his voice as he continued along the designated path. He was no longer within the familiar, suffocating confines of his previous Administratum offices. He found himself in a peculiar, sprawling complex, a temporary staging ground personally overseen by the Lord Commander for the immense task of assembling such a vast, desperate army. Here, at least, he felt momentarily safe from the omnipresent chill of the Sentinels of the Inquisition. Clasping his worn satchel, containing all that he still possessed, he walked towards a vast landing field where a newly constructed transport ship waited, its engines humming with barely restrained power.
He drew a deep breath, the metallic tang of Terran air filling his lungs. He neither expected assistance nor anticipated anything beyond the grim, singular purpose of the Crusade. He boarded the ship, finding his assigned berth, the unfamiliarity of the new uniform already chafing. Within the compartment, two other historians joined him: a young, sharp-eyed Mars priestess named Solana, her augmetics whirring with quiet excitement, and a stern-faced off-world aristocrat named Deven Mudire, whose status radiated an unmistakable air of arrogant disdain. Fabian, unused to such close proximity with strangers, felt a knot of awkwardness tighten in his stomach.
Thankfully, Solana proved more forthcoming than the aloof Deven. "Hear that?" Solana whispered, her voice a low binary current, her optical sensors sweeping across the ship's internal mechanisms. "That, Master Guelphrain, is the contented song of a healthy machine spirit."
Fabian closed his eyes, feeling the ship shudder as it began its ponderous ascent. He had not wished to leave Terra, but no other alternative had presented itself.
"Does he truly have to stand there, all… intimidating?" Fabian whispered, inclining his head towards the unmoving silhouette of the Lionguard Astartes assigned to their transport, a stoic guardian of the passage.
"That, Master Guelphrain," Deven Mudire replied, his voice dripping with condescension, his gaze fixed on his datapad, "is precisely the point. He is an Adeptus Astartes. His very presence is a statement. This is not some pleasure barge."
Fabian wisely ignored the slight. He listened as Deven, his initial disdain for a mere commoner slowly supplanted by the ship's undeniable quality, began to dissect the vessel's construction. Deven observed that this was no ancient, repurposed hulk, but a newly commissioned transport, clearly designed and upgraded specifically for the Indomitus Crusade. He even gestured to a small, pristine observation window—a luxury almost unheard of for such a functional vessel.
"A truly magnificent machine," Solana whispered, her binary excitability noticeable as her multi-faceted optical sensors scanned the ship's interior. "Forged with impossible speed, and imbued with incredible reliability. Reinforced adamantium plates. A newly developed engine, utilising flexible materials for enhanced thermal resistance and colossal fuel capacity. A perfect craft for the rapid deployment of… personnel." She corrected herself, her tone suddenly professional. "Or soldiers."
"I confess, I find it astounding that Lord Guilliman has been able to commission such advanced craft in such numbers," Fabian whispered, genuinely impressed. Deven, his gaze now fixed upon Fabian, swiftly corrected him.
"Not Lord Commander, Master Guelphrain, but the Princess-Regent," Deven clarified, a new, almost grudging respect in his voice. "It was she who conceived these magnificent vessels, brought forth their schematics in record time, may I add. And indeed, it is she who possesses the singular capability to marshal such unprecedented forces. I mean no disrespect to the Lord Commander's formidable administrative capabilities, of course, but it is clear he did not achieve this alone."
Fabian nodded slowly. He, like many across the Imperium, had heard the formidable, multi-layered titles: Her Imperial Highness, Princess of the Imperium of Man, Anathema Solara, Scion of Terra, Aurelia Aeternitas Primus. A long litany for the closest thing they possessed to a true sovereign ruler. Fabian, ever the historian, had devoured every accessible record of her. The ancient tales spoke of her genius, her profound kindness, her boundless capacity for hope.
As a matter of principle, Fabian always regarded Imperial history, especially that promulgated by the Ecclesiarchy, with a healthy dose of scepticism. The easy creation of inspiring symbols, the forging of larger-than-life images, was a common tactic. He had read countless hagiographies, retelling how perfectly divine the Princess was, how her sacrifice and divinity had granted the Emperor the power to destroy the Arch-Traitor Horus, and so much more. It was natural, then, for Fabian to focus on hard facts, on the historical veracity of the Princess's actual life. Yet, accessible information remained scarce, largely restricted to the approved Ecclesiarchy narrative. Thus, everything Fabian knew of her was filtered through tales of zealous, often fantastical, reverence.
He found it difficult, therefore, to wholly embrace the popular narrative of Aurelia's absolute perfection. But then again, he had harboured similar scepticism before encountering Roboute Guilliman, a figure of history resurrected, living and breathing, before his very eyes. Perhaps, Fabian conceded, the Princess-Regent's true essence was not so far removed from the inspiring tales after all.
"The very Hand of the Omnissiah," Solana whispered, her voice filled with reverent awe. "That is how many of the Archmagos, including Belisarius Cawl himself, now refer to the Princess-Regent."
"Is that… not profoundly heretical?" Fabian asked, surprised, and Solana chuckled softly.
"The undeniable efficacy of her creations is proof enough. The Choir-Forts that stabilise astropathic choirs, the Iteritas Antennae that link entire Segmenta, the advanced process for creating Aurelian Null-materials, and so much more—these are undeniable facts. And that is merely scratching the surface of her contributions! Have you, Master Guelphrain, ever witnessed a Colossi-Class Titan?"
Fabian shook his head, utterly mesmerised. Solana's face, for all its augmetic enhancements, bloomed with an almost girlish excitement.
"Each one stands three times taller than a mighty Imperator-class Titan. When one moves, Master Guelphrain, the very earth beneath its passage trembles across continents. The technology infused into their construction remains among the most advanced in the entire Imperium. And soon, you will witness them as they are deployed to secure our departure for the Indomitus Crusade. You will then understand the living, palpable manifestation of the Omnissiah's will in the Princess."
Fabian had not yet truly witnessed the Princess in close proximity, save for a fleeting glimpse during the grand ceremony, when her voice, that profoundly soothing and authoritative instrument, had ignited a fervent fire within his own sceptical soul. To hear her was one thing; to see her, even from a distance, was another entirely. He had felt her undeniable aura, that subtle sense of peace and absolute authority, the tangible weight of her presence.
But could the grand narratives surrounding the Princess truly be accurate? Fabian remained unsure, yet he could not, in good faith, utterly deny the overwhelming evidence of her impact. Perhaps, he mused, if he could directly question the Lord Commander himself, garner some objective insight into the Princess's true nature, he could begin to assemble a factual, unbiased history. It would be a daunting task, far from Terra, far from the Golden Throne's distant hum, but it was now a compelling possibility. He just needed to speak with the correct people. And Roboute Guilliman was undoubtedly one of them.
"By the Omnissiah," Solana breathed, her voice laced with profound awe, drawing Fabian's attention. He peered towards the vast observation window and gasped, his breath catching in his throat. In the void outside, silhouetted against the nascent light of Sol, stood two colossal forms—the Imperatoris Lux and the Gladius Aeternitas—the only two Aeternum-Maximus Class Behemoths in existence.
Fabian, like every educated citizen, knew these ships. Conceived and personally crafted by the Princess's hand during the height of the Great Crusade, they were ninety-five-kilometre, continent-sized battleships, monuments of a technological dawn long forgotten. They had been humanity's unwavering spears, its unyielding bulwarks throughout the dark millennia. Within their gargantuan hulls, entire cities resided, home to millions, generations of families who had never known a world beyond the steel and plasteel of their floating cities.
Fabian gazed upon the immense fleet, hundreds upon hundreds of Imperial warships, mere pinpricks orbiting the two towering giants. The scale was insane. A standard Retribution-class Battleship, a war engine capable of devastating planets, appeared as a mere speck beside them. Fabian knew the Gladius Aeternitas was to serve as the flagship of the Indomitus Crusade, Lord Commander Guilliman's command centre, and the mighty spearhead against the galaxy's darkness. It was the place he would, for untold years, call home.
"I have heard tales of these behemoths, but to see them…" Deven whispered, his usual arrogance stripped away, replaced by genuine, unadulterated awe. "To believe that the Imperium once possessed the ingenuity to construct such vessels… and that the very being who conceived and crafted such wonders is now returned to us. How can anyone deny the genesis of a new age for the Imperium?"
Fabian found he could not deny it. No one, seeing these monstrous ships, these undeniable testaments to the Princess's power, could.
"And you see them?" Solana added, pointing with a glowing augmetic finger. "Those are Stellaris-Class Battleships—four of them—with a hundred Aquila-Class Battlecruisers forming their escort. It is the first time all those formidable classes have been united, in full operational strength, in millennia!" she whispered, her binary speech patterns accelerating with excited joy, profoundly pleased to finally be embarking aboard such a majestic formation.
"This is a sight that will forever be seared into memory. This is the sight that unequivocally proclaims the Indomitus Crusade as one of the most significant and pivotal moments in the Imperium's long history," Deven added, frantically transcribing notes onto his data-slate.
"And more are yet to come," Solana added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I have heard that the Princess-Regent has already given Mars and the Laurel Systems the green light to initiate construction of a new Aeternum-Maximus Class Behemoth."
"Would that not… dangerously strain the Imperium's already beleaguered resources?" Fabian asked, his historian's practicality resurfacing.
"The Princess-Regent brought those resources, Master Guelphrain," Solana replied, a triumphant grin spreading across her augmetic face. "Archmagos Belisarius Cawl and the Princess were close collaborators during the Great Crusade, and they work together now! I know this for a fact! Do you perceive this vessel?" she gestured around their transport. "It is a new creation, forged in mere months! And those behemoths you see above Terra? The Imperatoris Lux and Gladius Aeternitas are not merely hovering for ceremonial display. They are undergoing repairs, meticulous updates, and rearmament with weapons none of us have ever before witnessed!"
"You appear to possess a formidable, indeed suspicious, knowledge of current events," Deven observed, his tone now laced with professional suspicion.
Solana waved his concerns away with a dismissive hand. "I merely… cultivate a wide network of associates. Individuals who value open discourse. Perhaps, Master Mudire, you might broaden your own social circle to truly comprehend the hidden workings of the Imperium, as I do." Deven scoffed, but said nothing.
"I know, Master Guelphrain," Solana continued, her voice swelling with fervent conviction, "that the Princess-Regent and Archmagos Belisarius Cawl have gathered around them minds that think outside the strictures of orthodoxy, minds willing to challenge conventional wisdom. And in the years to come, we will witness wonders of technology that will not only rival, but truly surpass, the glories of the Dark Age of Technology!" Solana spoke with the unwavering certainty of one who believed it all implicitly. And Fabian, observing the sheer scale of the fleet, the undeniable power of Aurelia's creations, found he could no longer wholly deny the vast possibilities she represented.
But even if his nascent belief was taking root, Fabian still desired more. Not just about the technological wonders, but about the Princess herself. Who was she, truly, behind the impenetrable myth? It would be a challenging pursuit, far from Terra's political intrigues, far from the silent gaze of the Golden Throne, but he could still seek the truth. He merely needed to speak with the correct people. And Roboute Guilliman was, undoubtedly, one of them.
Part III – The Conclave of Architects
Deep within the subterranean heart of the Golden Tower, beneath layers of adamantium, auramite, and unyielding psychic wards, pulsed a clandestine symphony of creation. Here, in the Princess-Regent's private laboratory, a new age of technological marvels was being forged, not by the rigid adherence to STC fragments but by the audacious fusion of forgotten wisdom and primordial insight. A select conclave of Archmagos and Magos Dominus, personally chosen by Belisarius Cawl himself, now toiled tirelessly, their minds alight with an almost heretical joy. Each member of this extraordinary cohort, much like Cawl and indeed the Princess, comprehended the profound cost of stagnation and the limitless potential humanity could seize with the right tools. They were visionaries, each eccentric and deeply peculiar, specialists in disparate fields, yet united by a singular purpose: to arm humanity against an unimaginable darkness.
Among them was Magos Biologis Dominus Malthus Crucible from Agripinaa, his extensive organic augmentations a testament to his life's work. His mind, famed and feared in equal measure, was dedicated to unravelling the secrets of organic life itself—a quest so all-consuming that it made him largely disdainful of the scrutiny of his orthodox Mechanicus peers, whom he considered blind to the true complexities of his studies. Aurelia saw in him a kindred spirit: a brilliant mind yearning for freedom from dogma. She had bestowed upon him not only the vast resources of her laboratory but a sacred liberty—to experiment, to theorise, to create within a set of principles she laid forth, strict enough to maintain ethical boundaries, yet expansive enough to permit radical inquiry. Malthus, now unfettered, worked with a zeal he had never before known.
Then there was Magos Artisan Dominus Hestor Phallax from Triplex Phall. Youthful for his rank, his every thought coalesced around a singular, fervent imperative: the total annihilation of the Imperium's multitudinous enemies. His mind was a tempest of creative, often outlandish, ideas for weaponry capable of crippling Necron phalanxes, devouring Tyranid swarms, and shattering Ork warbands. Yet, for all his genius, he had perpetually lacked the resources and the unblinking vision to bring these theories to fruition. Cawl had spoken highly of his brilliance, lamenting how his innovative concepts were routinely ridiculed by his conservative peers. Aurelia, however, embraced such outlandishness. She yearned for minds unburdened by convention. In her inner circle, surrounded by the tangible possibility of manifesting his wildest theories, Phallax was already proving an invaluable asset.
Another key member was Magos Domina Vespera-Delta from Voss Prime, a towering, multi-limbed figure whose fascination with the boundless void was matched only by her almost fanatical devotion to the Princess. She was a manic architect of fleets, her mind dreaming of monstrous spacecraft, battlecruisers of unparalleled resilience, capable of withstanding untold horrors, aircraft that would defy consumption, and transports impervious to the predations of the Warp. Delta was a true maniac of the void, a visionary of celestial combat, and Aurelia sought precisely such obsessive, singular dedication.
Aurelia also recognised the critical need for experts in bespoke weaponry and armour—minds unafraid to transcend established templates. She found this expertise in two exceptional souls: Magos Domina Ilexia Vrad-Omicron and Magos Dominus Severian Kaspel-Theta, both hailing from the metal-scarred Forge World of Metalica. Their unique affinity for designing weapons of overwhelming destructive force while simultaneously devising impenetrable defences for their soldiers was precisely what Aurelia required. They had already been instrumental in refining the Noverrium Mark X Power Armour for Guilliman, and their cogitators already spun with variants for various Astartes Chapters and devastating new armaments for the Astra Militarum, weapons that promised to give humanity a fighting chance in the upcoming crucible of war.
Yet, with Belisarius Cawl leading the charge alongside Guilliman on the Indomitus Crusade, Aurelia still required two Archmagos to act as her principal hands in this technological rebirth, two minds who would understand her cosmic vision beyond strict binary code. They needed to be her personal advisors, the authentic voices of the Adeptus Mechanicus within her inner circle.
Cawl, with his unparalleled understanding of the Imperium's most formidable intellects, had found them.
Archmagos Dominus Rho-21 Belentor from Mars was a study in paradox: a relentless, driven mind, subtly ambitious, yet possessing a grudging pragmatism. He was one of the few who acknowledged Cawl not as a rival, but as a necessary, brilliant force to manifest the Omnissiah's will upon Mars and its sister Forge Worlds. Though he harboured no illusions about Cawl being a conduit for the Omnissiah—that was a claim he considered his own—Belentor coveted the title of Fabricator-General of Mars. He saw himself as the true prophet of a new age, a dawn of technological ascendancy. His raw ambition, his burning desire to surpass Cawl, to become greater, underpinned by an unusual honesty regarding his capabilities, made him the perfect candidate for Aurelia's right hand in this grand endeavour. Belentor was a towering figure, more augmentation than man, his body a symphony of tubes, cables, and servo-motives, clearly attempting to emulate, even surpass, Cawl's own extensive augmentations. Aurelia, for her part, found his transparent ambition quietly amusing. When he first encountered EVA, Aurelia's unique Standard Template Constructor Core, he permitted himself no visible shock, merely a brief, stiff nod before immersing himself in the work. Yet, one of his myriad binary voices emitted a distinct hum of pure, suppressed excitement.
Beside him stood Archmagos Domina Agnetha-IX Vhos from Ryza, a truly intriguing character. She was older, her augmented form bearing the marks of countless battles, a veteran of the horrific Waaagh! Grax and Rarguts had nearly brought Ryza to its knees. She had witnessed the raw devastation the galaxy could unleash, and how, during the Long Night of the Noctis Aeterna—the months of silence when the Astronomican failed—her Forge World had teetered on the brink. Agnetha had dedicated her existence to safeguarding Ryza and, by extension, all humanity, against the inevitable destruction yet to come. Her paranoia was legendary, her capabilities unparalleled even among her kin. When Cawl's invitation reached her, she accepted without hesitation. Not from friendship, but from a shared, chilling vision of the abyss, a stark understanding of the dire stakes and the desperate measures required. This made her the ideal candidate for Aurelia's left hand, a counterbalance of grim pragmatism to Belentor's soaring ambition.
Belentor and Agnetha, two pillars of the Adeptus Mechanicus, thus became Aurelia's primary instruments in her bid to forge humanity's future—a future where they could defend themselves against foes who wasted nothing to destroy.
"This is not sufficient," Agnetha stated, her voice a multi-layered synth-chorus that reverberated through the vast lab. Her many augmented arms gestured emphatically, causing Belentor's numerous optical sensors to flash, taken aback by such a blunt pronouncement.
"Not sufficient," Belentor echoed, not as a question, but as a categorical statement, his gaze fixed on a complex schematic derived from one of EVA's data-slates—a design for a new, powerful Astra Militarum heavy tank, featuring a formidable plasma cannon. "May I inquire, Archmagos Domina, what you deem sufficient?"
Agnetha's binary voice flowed with disdainful precision. She leaned forward, tapping the data-slate, causing a holographic projection of the plasma cannon to swell into view. "The plasma cannon's prodigious size is disproportionate to its effective power. It need not be this massive to harness equivalent energy. Unless your intent is to mount this on a battleship, rather than a heavy tank. This design, I remind you, is for a mobile heavy tank, intended for ease of construction and rapid deployment."
"The scale is paramount, Archmagos Domina," Belentor countered, his servo-skulls whirring in rapid binary bursts, mirroring her own precise articulation. "For ease of maintenance, for modular repair in the field, and for mass production. Smaller components mean reduced reliability. We demand numbers and a robust, easily maintained machine capable of deployment by standard crew-cohorts."
"We must focus on the efficiency of the plasma battery itself," Agnetha's voice sliced back, edged with smug arrogance. "The cannon's size renders it inherently prone to malfunction through prolonged use. I confess, Archmagos, I hardly expect a Martian Priest to comprehend the exquisite elegance of the Omnissiah's will when applied to plasma weapon design." Belentor's binary voice seemed to choke, momentarily sputtering in disbelief.
"Mars's unparalleled efficacy in the field of Plasma armament is, without question, second to none!" he roared.
"Second only to Ryza," she corrected, a dry, cutting emphasis on her Forge World's name.
"Ryza's ingrained arrogance," Belentor hissed, his voice laced with venom, "appears to have survived even the Waaagh! that nearly razed your Forge World to atomic dust!" Agnetha's many augmented arms twitched, her mechanical body trembling with suppressed fury, her optical sensors flaring as she leaned menacingly towards Belentor.
"Mars's misplaced smugness does you no favours, Archmagos Dominus Rho-21 Belentor. Ryza, I assure you, thrives in the aftermath of war and destruction, reborn stronger from such crucible events."
"The least it could do," Belentor muttered darkly.
Aurelia observed their escalating, highly entertaining argument, a bizarre symphony of binary insults and mechanical growls. She knew, however, that prolonged bickering was a luxury they could ill afford. Slowly, subtly, she materialised before them, attempting to conceal her profound amusement.
"Peace, Archmagos," Aurelia said, her voice soft but absolute, causing both Belentor and Agnetha to halt their binary vitriol, grumbling under their breath. "Every second spent in this… discourse is a second irrevocably lost. Both of you present exceptionally valid points. Therefore, why do we not address each of them independently?"
Aurelia thought of what she desired, and with a silent, infinitesimal act of will, EVA complied. In a blink of light, a new data-slate materialised, which a dutiful servo-skull swiftly retrieved and presented.
"Here," Aurelia offered, tapping the slate, "let us consider creating both a light tank and a heavy tank, separately. We can then focus on achieving modularity in both designs, allowing us to increase or decrease the number of coils and hull plating as required." Both Archmagos seized the data-slate, their numerous optical sensors devouring the projections, and hummed in the unique, rhythmic cadence of their kind.
"An intriguing, indeed elegant, proposal, Your Highness," Belentor stated, a new, respectful note in his voice. "We could also integrate a small Noverrium hull for the plasma energy core itself, granting it enhanced operational longevity and reducing the risk of overheating due to exposure or prolonged usage."
"We can certainly craft a modular variant of the light tank, capable of rapid deployment and simplified field maintenance," Agnetha stated, her voice losing its previous arrogance, a new collaborative tone emerging. "That particular application of the Noverrium hull for the plasma energy core, Archmagos Dominus Rho-21 Belentor, is… highly commendable."
"Your concern for the overheating aspects of the Plasma energy core is well-founded and entirely understandable, Archmagos Domina Agnetha-IX Vhos. I confess, I initially failed to appreciate the full extent of the problem. My apologies," he conceded, a true admission rarely heard from a Martian Magos.
"Apologies are unneeded. Our focus must now encompass both formidable power and vast production. I confess, I was perhaps too fixated on isolated reliability, and thus inadvertently constrained the potential of a multi-layered apparatus," she replied, her augmented arms now sweeping in a gesture of expansive new understanding.
Aurelia observed their newfound collaboration, a faint, contented smile gracing her lips.
She gazed around her laboratory, now a hive of incessant activity. Countless servo-skulls, servitors, and cogitators hummed, toiled, and whirred, a ceaseless symphony of progress. It was not merely the melting pot for the Indomitus Crusade's immense demands, but the embryonic forge for what humanity would ultimately require to truly thrive. She felt a deep confidence that her vision would be achieved. Yet, amidst all these grand creations, Aurelia was also deeply engaged in her own projects. She was not one to stand idle, to merely command; she learned that from her father, the Emperor—a man of science who tirelessly tinkered, experimented, and wrought with his own hands. Aurelia was no different. She loved wearing practical overalls, feeling the subtle tang of oil, and the profound satisfaction of crafting something with her own hands.
Aurelia's focus now turned to a personal imperative: a set of tools to help her focus, to safely channel the vast, untamed ocean of her power into discrete, manageable pools within the material world. Channels that could flow without overwhelming her human anchor or those around her. Her first desire was a means to effectively commune with her brother, Guilliman. She was proficient in Astral Projection, having used it countless times, but traversing the raw, turbulent Warp was far too perilous for her consciousness. However, she knew her personal dimension, the Basilica Liminalis, offered a safer conduit, a pristine pathway beyond the Warp's dangers.
Yet, she yearned for a more refined method, one that would not demand she lie quiescent in her bed, vulnerable, or force her to retreat into the Basilica itself for each interaction. She sought to traverse vast distances without truly displacing her soul, without risking her physical body. Aurelia desired to harness the Basilica's latent power, a place whose full potential she had yet to fully comprehend, to channel her vast essence safely and subtly into the material world.
She knew this was a challenging endeavour, pushing the boundaries of existing physics. But she also knew it was inherently possible for her.
Aurelia's unique essence allowed her to perceive both sides of any cosmic coin simultaneously – a difficult, demanding feat, but feasible. And the more she refined this ability, the easier it would become.
"A way to travel the Warp without inherent danger, a means to channel my true self, my essence, into the material world without searing it," Aurelia hummed thoughtfully. Soon enough, EVA, sensing her precise need, manifested a new data-slate. She took it from a hovering servo-skull, her eyes widening with interest. It contained the schematics for a two-part project.
The first was a chair—a throne of power—in which she could sit, focus, and channel the boundless power of the Basilica Liminalis into the material world at her conscious will. The second was a crown, or rather, a refined diadem. This elegant circlet would serve as a personal conduit, allowing her to draw upon her vast reserves of power in small, controlled flows, much like a psyker's staff serves to channel and focus their inherent abilities from the Warp. For where a conventional psyker drew power from the tumultuous Empyrean, Aurelia drew hers from the boundless reservoir of her own being. Both required a channel to manage that flow without becoming overwhelmed.
The diadem, by itself, would serve to safely filter and focus her immediate powers. But when she was seated upon the throne, both artefacts would synergise, working as one unified system. This would allow her to explore the deepest recesses of the Warp unharmed, to focus her perception on specific points in the galaxy, and to project her presence directly wherever Guilliman might be, enabling her to stand by his side.
Aurelia had once explained to Cawl, before his departure, that her personal dimension, the Basilica Liminalis, was a vast, endless place, expanding as far as her will dictated, a giant observatory where she could witness creation itself across countless universes and realities. A place where she could gaze, in profound awe and chilling terror, upon the infinite vastness of her own being.
So, with this diadem and throne, it would be akin to constructing a magnificent magnifying lens, a celestial microscope that would allow her to focus infinitesimal parts of her boundless self, drawing just what she needed, and manifesting it safely into the material world.
"It should be enough for now," Aurelia whispered to herself, a profound sense of purpose settling upon her. "Enough for now."