The Khan sat reading the forbidden annals of Imperial history, a chronicle spanning ten thousand years.
Any reader could see clearly how the Imperium had changed across the ages—
from the Horus Heresy, the creation of the Black Legion, the Age of Apostasy, and the Penitent Crusades, to the birth of the Great Rift, the fall of Cadia, and countless other tragedies.
The Emperor had been grievously wounded, shackled to the Golden Throne, unable to guide the Imperium He had built.
The Primarchs, one by one, vanished from the galaxy.
The Imperium faltered, ever more decadent with each passing century.
In the Emperor's and the Primarchs' absence, darkness spread across mankind's domains.
The Imperial Truth, once the faith of humanity, was forgotten, replaced by ignorant and strangling dogma.
What remained was a withered shell clinging desperately to survival.
The Imperium tottered on the brink of collapse. Humanity… teetered on extinction.
"Father… look at what we have become."
The Khan's eyes closed in pain, his body trembling.
He remembered the days of the Great Crusade.
The day the Emperor had come to Chogoris, the windswept steppe-world of his youth,
and promised the future of mankind.
It was the Khan's dream as well—to unite the scattered tribes of humanity and lead them to the stars.
He had abandoned his khanate throne, brought his generals into Imperial service,
and sworn his loyalty to the Emperor—his father.
Together with the Emperor and his Primarch brothers, he carved conquest after conquest across the galaxy, forging the Imperium of Man.
He thought it would bring humanity prosperity.
But before that day could ever arrive, the dream was shattered by the Heresy—
by the slaughter of father and sons, brother against brother.
Disillusioned, the Khan vanished into the Webway.
Now, he found himself regretful.
If only he had stayed—perhaps things would not have decayed so far.
At the very least, he—the Primarch of the White Scars, Master of the Azure Sky—
was a capable enough leader to hold something together.
"I only pray that all this can still be undone."
Drawing a deep breath, the Khan read on.
And there he found a familiar name: Roboute Guilliman, the Primarch of the Ultramarines.
His brother had returned, resurrected to serve as Lord Regent of the Imperium,
struggling to save what remained.
Alongside Guilliman's name appeared another: Eden Grant, the Primarch of Hope.
This "Hope Primarch" had intervened at critical moments, aiding Guilliman and the Imperium.
As the Khan read, heavy transport craft began to arrive outside,
bearing food, arms, munitions, machinery, medicine—
and whole detachments of Tech-Priests.
Eden had leveraged his "Savior's Dominion" and its vast Webway logistics network to establish a supply chain for the White Scars more advanced than anything they had ever known.
Now, anything they needed for their hunting campaigns could be delivered.
Soon, a great mechanized steppe-palace rose as a temporary encampment,
shielded by void-fields and heavy turrets.
It was no mere tent, but a fortress.
The Khan took in the sight, moved to the core pavilion.
Compared to the humble canvas of the Great Crusade, this towering machine-palace of steel and hide was ten times grander.
Then—
Whummm.
Twin layers of pale-blue light shimmered to life around the palace.
The Khan's eyes widened.
"A void shield? Two layers?!"
He too had tinkered with wargear in his time, but such engineering left even him impressed.
This fortress-tent could resist armored columns and strike craft— and it could move across the battlefield, the perfect weapon for mobile warfare.
In truth, Eden had only built it as a mobile office and residence, preferring comfort.
But as the Savior Primarch, even a "temporary" structure had to come equipped with heavy shields, artillery, and proscribed weaponry.
To outsiders, it was impregnable.
Inside, Eden sat upon a throne, reviewing a briefing prepared by his adjutants.
He enjoyed going into meetings well-prepared.
The Khan, the report said, was a hunter and a killer, yet also a reader of lore, and a leader bound by strict discipline and lofty ideals. A visionary who sought freedom through unity and responsibility.
"A good sign," Eden mused.
Such men could be reasoned with.
Brutes like Angron—hopeless.
With him, one could only fight until one or the other lay dead.
And vain peacocks like Magnus or Fulgrim— their only cure was humiliation, beating them until they knew who was master and who was child.
He jotted notes onto his slate:
Khan believes freedom finds its home in unity and duty. Approach from this angle.
Yes—if anything could bind them, it was the prosperity of mankind.
"Great Khan, I am Jubal, Chapter Master of the White Scars."
The scarred veteran bowed low before his gene-sire.
"You… are a worthy leader," the Khan admitted.
But he remembered nothing of this warrior.
When the Khan had vanished into the Webway, Jubal had only just completed his implantation.
For ten millennia, the White Scars had endured without their Primarch, unlike the Ultramarines, who at least had Guilliman's body entombed in stasis— a holy relic upon Macragge.
The Scars had long since adapted to life without their father.
Now he had returned, and both gene-sire and sons would need time to adjust.
"Come, Great Khan. Allow me to lead you inside."
The Khan followed, for the defenses required an authorized escort.
Inside, the pavilion was sumptuous, like a palace.
The air was pure, cycled through filters.
Ornamentation of Terra's distant East filled the chambers— a culture long dead, but one the Khan admired.
In the grand hall, Chogorian pelts carpeted the floor.
Beast-oil lamps burned beneath gilded arches.
At the center sat a throne, backed by a carved panel
depicting the Khan's oath to the Emperor on the steppe,
recorded in sweeping calligraphy.
On the throne sat Eden.
Around him stood White Scar veterans, as though guarding their king.
The Khan fell silent.
Between himself and his sons yawned a gulf of centuries.
The hall grew tense.
Jubal and the veterans shifted uneasily,
glancing from the Hope Primarch on the throne to their gene-father.
For years, Eden had been "father" to them,
guiding them, nurturing them, commanding them.
Now their true sire had returned—
and they did not know how to choose.
It was not their decision to make.
So they waited for Eden to act.
On the throne, Eden was mid-transition, managing another clone-shell.
He had just concluded urgent orders concerning the Dark Eldar black markets,
and had dispatched further Mandrake forces.
Now, his attention returned.
He looked up—and saw the Khan.
"Ah, forgive me, brother. I was lost in work."
He rose at once, striding down warmly.
"Come, let us speak somewhere more private."
This hall was no place for such talk—it made things awkward.
It felt as though he were declaring:
"Khan, rest easy. Your gene-sons, your treasures, your world of Chogoris—I'll keep them safe for you."
The act of a usurper.
Before the Khan's return, it had been fine.
But now? It would only wound the bond between brothers.
So Eden led the Khan away, all easy familiarity.
"Khan, my brother—how often have I heard our Father speak of you…"
At once he played the Emperor card—
the most effective weapon when dealing with a Primarch's filial heart.
The Khan's brow had been furrowed.
But at that word—Father—his ears twitched, his attention sharpened.
Though estranged from the Emperor,
though seldom remembered by Him,
the Khan could not help but listen closely.
Back when the Emperor withdrew to the depths of the Imperial Palace to build His great Webway project, the Khan had openly said that his vision for mankind's destiny differed from His Father's.
Yet trials and bitter hardship had changed the White Scar Primarch's heart.
He had sworn before all that nothing would stop him—or his Legion—from returning to Terra, to the Father's side.
The Khan became one of the staunchest loyalists, standing defiant upon the walls of the Imperial Palace.
And after his long exile into the Webway, he came to understand more clearly than ever the Emperor's purpose in building it.
It had been the correct path—its only flaw was its failure.
Now, more than anything, he wanted to know what the Emperor truly thought of him.
"The Emperor regrets His past neglect—His failure to heed the voices of His sons. Especially those of you who remained loyal."
Eden's tone was solemn. "He has said, had you still stood beside Him, the Imperium would never have decayed so far."
Half-truths, half-lies.
Under Eden's influence, the Emperor had softened somewhat—His dealings with Guilliman were far warmer than before.
And Eden could sell the rest with enough conviction.
But before he finished, the Khan gave a sharp, humorless laugh.
"Did Father truly say this?"
His hawk-like eyes fixed on the Hope Primarch, this strange new brother.
"You would not expect me to believe such a clumsy lie."
The White Scar knew his father's nature well.
That figure was unbending, demanding all obey His vision. Reflection was not in His character.
"From the moment I set eyes on you, you have been playing a role. Like Fulgrim, ever the peacock of performance."
The Khan shook his head.
"Your tricks cannot persuade me. Perhaps you should change your approach.
If not, I shall take my sons and leave."
He was the lord of the steppe. His will could not be denied.
For a heartbeat, Eden nearly faltered.
Then he remembered one thing: the Khan's greatest weapon—"Chogorian Oratory."
Once, he had battered Mortarion into despair with nothing but words, breaking the Death Lord in his own mind.
Compared to that, this was restrained.
"I am telling the truth," Eden said firmly, without hesitation.
His plan was ready.
If persuasion failed, then—call the Emperor Himself.
Whummm.
Golden psychic resonance flooded the air.
Eden shaped a temporary channel across the immaterium.
"This is a link, brother. It will take you directly to the Emperor. Speak with Him yourself—let it silence your doubts."
Now it was the Khan's turn to hesitate.
His throat tightened.
For any of the Primarchs, direct communion with their Father carried weight beyond words.
At last, he accepted.
Eden was calm. He had already sent a message ahead—urging the Emperor to play along.
The Emperor hungered for Commorragh and the Webway beyond. The Khan would be vital to that endeavor.
The Father's pride, long eroded, was ready to bend for the sake of conquest.
And so, through Eden's aid, the Khan and the Emperor spoke.
Eden did not intrude. He merely waited.
That was between father and son.
At length, the Khan's eyes opened.
They were rimmed with red, yet his face was lighter, his burdens eased.
The steppe lord exhaled and grinned, rough and unguarded.
"Brother, now we can speak of what comes next."
Eden smiled.
That alone told him he had succeeded half-way.
"Good. Then you will understand my plans."
The Khan had his own convictions, and Eden knew he would be hardest to sway on one matter above all: cooperation with xenos.
The Khan despised them, wanted only to cut them all down.
Still, Eden led him higher into the pavilion.
A flap was lifted—revealing a green meadow.
The Khan blinked, startled.
Real grass. Sheep grazing only paces away. The scent of wind and pasture filled the air.
A micro-garden, transplanted from true soil, a fragment of Chogoris reborn.
The Khan's heart lurched. After ten thousand years, he breathed again the air of home.
"Well? Not bad, is it?"
Eden beckoned him to the fire pit at the center, where a Chogorian ram roasted on the spit.
He handed over a leather skin.
"Try this—strong drink, brewed from the waters of the Taraska River."
The Khan's eyes widened.
That river was the lifeblood of his youth, its waters famed for their purity.
Eden had made a spirit from it—Taraska Vodka.
A harsher, sharper cousin of fen-fire liquor.
Now it was the favorite of White Scar warriors, soon to be exported across the Imperium.
They ate. They drank. The Khan's laughter boomed across the tent, rough and honest.
Brotherhood was forged in meat and spirit.
Here Eden spoke of his "Savior's Dominion."
The Khan's brow creased.
"Brother… does Father know you mean to build a Second Imperium?"
Eden nearly spat his drink.
"A second Imperium? What words! No—my Dominion is part of the Imperium.
No different than Ultramar."
But the Khan was sharp—sharper than his rugged air suggested.
"No. You would make the Imperium into your Dominion. The Dominion would be the Imperium.
And perhaps Father has not forbidden it."
"You see clearly," Eden admitted.
"Imagine it, brother—an Imperium of Reason. Science and truth, not superstition.
Armies of Astartes and auxilia, disciplined, ordered.
Vast fleets where an Emperor-class was commonplace.
Titan Legions mustered at will.
The people fed, no longer starving. Industry and invention unending.
No warp to hinder us—our fleets striking anywhere, anytime.
Humanity the sole masters of the galaxy.
You, leading your warriors to conquer ever further."
It was a dazzling vision.
"Can such a thing truly be done?"
The Khan's voice was half-longing, half-doubt.
"It has been done," Eden answered without pause.
"In the Golden Age, mankind surpassed even this.
We are only fallen, not lost."
His conviction was unshakable.
"I believe we will rise again. We will bring mankind into the light."
The words burned hot. The Khan's blood stirred.
At last, he swore it—he would stand with Eden.
They sealed it in drink and meat, a brotherhood like the oath of ancient warlords.
Only then did Eden reveal the final truth.
The key to mankind's rebirth lay in the conquest of Commorragh.
For that, they would have to use xenos as pawns— and the Khan, ever the foe of aliens, would have to bend.
"Brother," Eden said intently, "the future of mankind rests upon you."
The Khan frowned, reluctant.
But the fire was set, the bond forged.
At last, he yielded.
Eden swore it was only temporary.
Once mankind ruled the galaxy entire, the xenos would be driven out, cast down as cannon fodder.
That was enough for the Khan to accept.
Together they descended to meet the White Scars.
The warriors feasted upon meat, fish, fruit—
more abundance than they had ever known.
The Khan stared, stunned.
Never had his Legion lived so richly.
Chogoris had never been poor, but never wealthy enough for this.
Such logistics bordered on extravagance.
"Brother, is this not wasteful?"
He disdained excess and luxury.
"How can warriors fight if they do not eat?" Eden countered easily.
"This is merely standard supply in my Dominion. It only seems lavish because you were poor."
He explained: Chogoris and its surrounds had been transformed with high technology—lush grasslands, endless herds.
The galaxy's greatest pasture.
Abundance was no sin. Hoarding it would be waste.
"And all this," Eden gestured to the pavilion, the wealth, the Redemption Titans standing beyond,
"is not mine. It is yours."
He strode to the Moonfang, the Khan's ancient jetbike, laid a hand upon its battered frame.
"Old Khan, this ride of yours is falling apart. It's long past time you had a new one."
The Khan bristled. He would not abandon his craft so lightly.
"The Moonfang is mine, rebuilt by my own hands. No other can match it—not even your gaudy contraption."
He sneered at Eden's jewel-encrusted machine.
Eden only smiled, serene.
"That toy of mine? A trinket, nothing more. Not meant for war.
What I have prepared for you is something else entirely.
Commissioned by Belisarius Cawl himself,
built by the greatest Magi of the Mechanicus,
infused with relics of lost technology…"
He lifted a hand.
A colossal crate, five meters tall, unfolded with a hiss.
Engines roared within, like the bellow of some chained beast.
The sound shook the bones.
The Khan's eyes narrowed, the fire of anticipation kindling within.
(End of Chapter)
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