"Oh? A rare guest indeed."
Guilliman rubbed the back of his neck.
Since the end of the Rangdan Xenocides, Yuki had ordered him to rest.
And Guilliman, to his own surprise, obeyed.
A Vacation That Became… Not a Vacation
He returned to Macragge.
He walked its avenues.
He inspected civic works personally.
He revised infrastructure plans.
He corrected irrigation layouts.
He improved tax efficiency.
He redesigned port traffic flow.
Local administrators wept while taking notes.
Governor Guilliman had returned.
Order itself had returned.
He did spend time with Lady Yvraine.
He did walk the gardens.
He did rest.
Briefly.
But after returning to Ultramar command, Guilliman chose not to immediately resume Terra duties.
Instead, he accompanied the Ultramarines on extended expeditionary operations.
Not for glory.
Not for honors.
Not for competition.
Simply to observe.
To see his sons.
To ensure cohesion.
To reinforce unity through presence.
And to remind himself that the XIII Legion was more than logistics tables and fleet manifests.
This observation lasted several years.
On Terra, the consequences were… noticeable.
Malcador's Problem
Malcador visited Yuki personally.
Normally, he and Guilliman balanced Terra's political factions through carefully staged disagreements and negotiated compromises.
Now Guilliman was gone.
Without their dual equilibrium, political blocs began drifting.
Subtle tensions resurfaced.
Petitions sharpened.
Ambitions resurfaced.
Yuki told him not to worry.
Someone else could occupy the position.
Guilliman could remain away.
So long as his loyalty remained constant, his physical location did not matter.
Guilliman knew this.
He knew what his absence meant.
He knew Terra would feel it.
But when he looked at the Ultramarines beside him…
…he stayed.
Just a little longer.
Like a student promising himself one more chapter before sleep.
The Return
When Guilliman finally returned to Terra, he received looks heavy enough to sink a cruiser.
Malcador sat calmly with tea.
"What brings the Thirteenth Primarch to the Ministry of State?"
Guilliman sighed.
"Please don't mock me, Prime Minister."
Malcador gestured to a chair.
"Sit. Review these memorials. Familiarize yourself with the current situation."
Guilliman's twin minds accelerated.
He scanned documents while speaking.
"Who has been holding the left-wing coalition together?"
"Your mother."
Guilliman looked up sharply.
Malcador pointed behind him.
"It truly is your mother."
Guilliman turned.
A thin woman in a white research coat stood quietly.
"Ms. Astartes…"
"You've returned," she said calmly. "Then my presence is no longer required."
Malcador inclined his head.
"Thank you for your assistance."
She left without ceremony.
Guilliman lowered his voice.
"Why involve her?"
"The Vice-Emperor requested it."
Guilliman understood instantly.
The Power of Symbolism
Lady Astartes — Director of the Imperial Genetic Research Institute and Luna Geneseed Vaults.
A mortal elevated through brilliance and loyalty.
Longevity extended through genetic therapy.
Spirit worn thin by centuries of service.
To the Primarchs, she was a technical authority.
To the Imperium, she was something more.
A maternal figure.
A symbol.
An emotional anchor.
She had once hoped to guide them.
But most Primarchs offered respect, not affection.
Only Yuki, Horus, and Vulkan maintained warmth.
So she focused on duty.
That was enough.
When Yuki asked for her help stabilizing Terra's political balance, she agreed.
Not from political ambition.
But because a beloved child had asked.
Guilliman frowned.
"She has no political power. How did she become the rallying point?"
Malcador smiled faintly.
"Her authority is symbolic — and symbolism moves empires."
To the left coalition, her presence implied moral legitimacy.
To oppose her risked appearing to oppose the Primarchs themselves.
Thus, equilibrium held.
Barely.
Guilliman exhaled slowly.
Had he stayed away longer…
…he might have returned to a Terra that no longer needed him.
He hesitated.
"What of the Empress?"
Malcador's teacup paused.
"I will explain another time."
Guilliman nodded.
Some doors were not opened lightly.
"What of the two brothers I have yet to meet?"
Malcador handed him two reports.
Guilliman read.
"…Mortarion executed planetary rulers after surrender."
"…Perturabo and Dorn are escalating rivalry."
Malcador sighed.
"A tragic age."
Meanwhile — Competitive Escalation
"I am not doing this to prove anything," Perturabo declared, "but to correct your arrogance."
Sigismund blinked.
"I… see."
"Tomorrow," Perturabo continued, "we each command 30,000 troops. Victory decides superiority."
"Thirty thousand?" Sigismund said.
"I will use three hundred."
"I will use three."
"…Agreed."
Sigismund: ?
Dorn closed his eyes briefly.
How had his most disciplined son walked into that trap so easily?
Origins of the Challenge
Dorn had initially refused.
"Pointless and inefficient."
"You refuse because you fear defeat?" Perturabo sneered.
Dorn considered.
"No. Because I would win."
Perturabo nearly attacked him on the spot.
Magnus intervened immediately.
The last thing he needed was fratricide jeopardizing his psychic reforms.
After calming Perturabo, Magnus wisely withdrew.
"This no longer concerns me."
Eventually Dorn proposed:
A strategic simulation.
A war game.
No bloodshed.
No wasted strength.
A contest of doctrine.
Both Primarchs recognized the overlap between the Imperial Fists and Iron Warriors.
Both desired resolution.
Their sons would conduct the field exercise.
A "friendly" demonstration.
The Champions
Dantioch's complexion had lost all color.
Sigismund felt mildly embarrassed.
He preferred worthy opponents.
But a Primarch's order was absolute.
They exchanged harsh words.
Then a glance.
Understanding passed silently.
This would be professional.
Measured.
Honorable.
Sigismund drew his blade.
Cold light gleamed like a winter star.
Dantioch inhaled slowly.
Fear vanished.
Calculations replaced it.
Tactical vectors.
Angles.
Momentum.
Structural weaknesses.
Victory pathways.
He no longer wondered if he could win.
Only how.
Nearby, the Primarchs ignored them.
Their war unfolded on the tactical display.
Perturabo and Dorn did not consider each other fools.
On the board, they were equals.
Dorn won.
Perturabo's expression darkened.
Dantioch was carried from the field.
Sigismund stood, armor chestplate cratered inward by a precise demolition strike.
Proof of excellence.
Perturabo turned away without comment.
Near the Thunderhawk, Usotan waited.
"What do you want?" Perturabo asked.
"Fourth Legion materiel has arrived," Usotan said calmly.
"Fifty suits of Terminator armor. One hundred master-crafted power swords. Additional armaments."
Perturabo nodded and moved to board.
He paused.
"Give Dantioch a suit."
Usotan lifted a brow.
Only Warsmiths wore Terminator plate.
Promotion, then.
Perturabo disappeared into shadow.
"If he had worn it," his voice echoed back,
"we might have won."
Usotan stood silently.
"…Understood."
Elsewhere:
"You performed adequately," Dorn said.
Sigismund waited.
"…but your tactical recklessness was unacceptable."
"Understood, Father."
"Return to fortification duties."
Sigismund, who had hoped for rest:
"…Yes."
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