The moment the silver-white mechanical beast appeared—its frame covered with intricate runes—it instantly drew the gaze of every White Scar warrior.
Even the White Scar Primarch himself, Jaghatai Khan, was no exception.
The entire encampment fell into silence, broken only by the roar of the machine's engines.
Every ear strained toward the Hope Primarch's explanation.
For the White Scar Primarch and his sons, a roaring machine-mount was a temptation they could never resist.
And this was no ordinary machine—it was overseen by Belisarius Cawl himself, with no less than eight Archmagos contributing to its construction, woven with rare relics and materials.
Among the Adeptus Mechanicus, the Archmagi held near-divine stature. Other than the Hope Primarch himself, almost no one could muster so many at once.
Even the Emperor, in His time, had struggled to gather such a host of Archmagi to fashion His personal wargear.
Before Roboute Guilliman, the Avenging Son, fell into his millennia-long coma, he had pleaded with Belisarius Cawl to perfect the Primarch-replication technology and create devices that might heal his broken body.
Yet that commission took ten thousand years before being delivered.
True, part of the delay was due to Cawl's fragmented memory, the result of endless body replacements and his soul-fusion experiments.
But surely, given his data vaults and memory shards, one could not rule out that the Archmagos had simply… reprioritized Guilliman's request.
After all, the machine-priests' obsession with knowledge and invention often blinded them to all else.
And Cawl—unfettered, erratic, prolific—maintained colossal laboratories scattered across the galaxy, each drowning in unnumbered experiments waiting to be advanced.
It was only natural for delays to occur.
Eden, the Hope Primarch, was different.
He had paid them prices no Archmagos could refuse, bought out their entire time, and drowned them in relics, raw technologies, and rare treasures.
All of it—for the sole purpose of forging a machine worthy of the White Scar Primarch.
To ensure delivery, some Archmagi had even invoked forbidden relic force-fields to stretch their allotted time, while others hurled themselves into the warp to work unceasingly.
It had been nothing short of a labor of agony and devotion.
And in the end, the commission was fulfilled.
Khan listened to Eden's description, before hesitantly asking:
"Brother… just how many resources did this consume?"
These were Archmagi—beings before whom even his father had extended courtesy, for the Cult Mechanicus venerated the Omnissiah and held themselves as equals to the Imperium.
Long ago, he himself had sought out an Archmagos to fashion a new mount for him—only to be repelled by their haughtiness and the staggering price they demanded.
In the end, he had been forced to fashion his own modifications.
Eden waved a hand, dismissive:
"Ah, well… only a little more expensive than a battleship. But the cost-to-performance ratio is excellent."
The Hope Primarch's words left Jaghatai Khan and his sons breathless, their gazes almost painful to maintain, as though Eden were wreathed in golden radiance.
"You mean to say… this single mount costs nearly as much as my flagship?!"
Khan felt numb.
His flagship was a Queen of Glory–class vessel, among the most precious assets of his Chapter. And yet before him stood merely a personal ride.
Even a Primarch could not live so extravagantly!
Some of their brothers' domains were barely prosperous enough to scrape together the resources to maintain their fleets and armor, let alone commission new craft.
Yet here stood a single bike that rivaled a warship in worth.
Its exorbitance had reason: one Archmagos, desperate to meet the deadline, had stripped his own sacred relics to fit into the machine.
So desperate was he to earn the Machine God's favor, to secure infinite computing power on demand.
Hummm—
The machine, named the Pale Eagle, lifted gently from the ground as though it bore no weight at all.
Clatter—
Jubal's eyes widened at the sight of the colossal bike, his roasted mutton haunch falling forgotten to the ground.
He swallowed hard, his words stumbling from awe:
"By the Emperor… is this… a gravitic heavy vehicle?!"
The White Scar sons did not fully understand forbidden technologies, but they knew grav-tech well enough.
It was their eternal wound.
The White Scars were famed for their lightning strikes, boasting: "None in the Imperium knows machines better than us!"
And yet they were mocked.
Most painfully, when the Custodians' grav-bikes blazed past them, untouchable, leaving them helpless in the dust.
It was enough to make even proud sons weep in silence, haunted by nightmares of inadequacy.
For small-scale gravitic technology was a gulf that even the Mechanicus struggled to bridge—let alone Astartes Chapters.
Custodian vehicles, relics of the Great Crusade, were long beyond replication.
The White Scars had even considered commissioning the Blood Ravens to "acquire" a Custodian bike for study.
Only Khan himself had salvaged some honor, scavenging a gravitic relic and reforging it into his famed mount, Moon Dragon.
It preserved their pride… but the relic was damaged, leaving the machine no better than a jet-thrust skimmer.
Fast, yes—but never true gravitic flight.
And now, before their eyes, hovered a genuine gravitic machine.
How could they not tremble?
Eden met their hopeful stares, and nodded.
"Yes. This is indeed a gravitic mount. And more—this is an optimized version of the Custodians' grav-bikes, surpassing them in every respect."
In that instant, the White Scar sons roared as though they had triumphed in battle.
Even Khan's eyes betrayed longing.
"Damn it… to test me with a gravitic mount…!"
Not long ago, he had scorned Eden's offer of a gift. Had rejected it with harsh words.
Who could have guessed Eden had such power—that he could bring forth Custodian technology and improve it?
That meant the White Scars could now possess grav-bikes superior to the Emperor's own Guard.
How could one refuse such a thing?
Eden, oblivious to Khan's tormented longing, continued his explanation.
Pointing toward the towering, two-meter-high Pale Eagle, he spoke:
"Grav-tech is only one of its features.
This is, in truth, a tri-terrain vehicle: land, sea, and sky. It can even perform short-range void travel within a system.
It carries warp-stable jump drives, enabling short teleports without losing function—even in the Immaterium.
It can appear on any battlefield."
To prove his words, a squad of Terminator Thunder Guardians shouldered heavy weapons and unleashed a storm of fire upon the Pale Eagle.
Zzzrrhhk—!
Heavy bolters, plasma beams, melta-lances—all raked across the bike's frame.
Yet none so much as scratched it. Light flared, shields bloomed, force-fields shimmered, every shot denied.
"The Pale Eagle is armed with ten distinct shield systems.
It carries a relic-grade Void Shield designed for individual use, as well as a Mechanicus treasure—Cawl's own Sacrificial Repulsor.
This device emits sacred shockwaves to repel enemies or scatter kinetic assaults.
That was Cawl's personal contribution."
Eden continued:
"As for weapons… it is armed with relic weapons of significant destructive yield. I won't demonstrate them here.
Suffice it to say: it wields firepower greater than a Contemptor Dreadnought, and defenses equal to—perhaps greater than—an Imperial Knight.
At full throttle, it could crash through super-heavy tanks or fortress walls without a dent."
He paused, as though recalling an afterthought:
"Oh—and I nearly forgot to mention its speed.
It easily outpaces the Custodians' Dawn Eagle jetbikes. Twice the speed of Moon Dragon, in fact—reaching hypersonic velocities.
In all the Imperium, there is nothing faster."
The White Scars gasped once more, awe swelling into elation.
At hypersonic speed, vision itself failed, tracking weapons lost their lock, and the very air around the machine would ionize into a plasma sheath, cloaking it in darkness.
Radar itself would falter. Speed would become its invisibility.
Khan's eyes grew brighter still, his hunger for the Pale Eagle plain for all to see.
But Eden's demonstration was not finished.
"Of course, this mount possesses features no Imperial vehicle has ever known…"
He stepped up to the Pale Eagle, pride heavy in his tone, and at last laid his hand upon its heart:
"It carries the Hope Dominion's own life-sustainment systems—capable of adapting to any environment in existence."
"…so that your riding experience becomes one of absolute comfort.
For example, during the drive there will be no jolts or turbulence—or, if you wish, the bike can simulate the gait of a galloping steed. Its air-filtration system can even mimic the winds and the fragrant grasses of the Chogorian steppes, as though you were back upon your homeworld."
The White Scar Primarch and his warriors, hearing such descriptions, grew all the more entranced—as if already riding across Chogoris' endless plains.
It was their deepest joy, their truest freedom.
And if such intoxicating sensations could be brought onto the battlefield, would it not double their ferocity?
"What a perfect creation this is…"
Khan's breath grew heavy, his body trembling.
If he possessed such a relic, would he not cleave his way through Ork hordes with even greater rapture?
He could almost see himself astride the Pale Eagle, crashing into the vile Warbosses, leaving only ruin in his wake.
"And there's more…"
Before their eyes, Eden opened one of the Pale Eagle's storage compartments and drew forth a steaming skewer of lamb, biting into it with relish.
"I've outfitted it with full storage and survival equipment—so you'll always have fresh food on hand, as though just pulled from the fire…"
He described its stasis-field storage bays, modular sofas, collapsible tents, micro-reactor cooktops, full suites of armor and weapon repair tools, even portable shrines for battlefield prayer.
All personalized with the unique touches of the Hope Dominion.
Clearly, the hand of another Cawl-master—the so-called Kaul Black Mechanist Archmagos—was at work here.
Eden acknowledged it. After all, war was not only about combat—experience and living standards mattered, too.
Truthfully, had he enjoyed riding vehicles himself, and not preferred lounging on starships' soft sofas or beds while scrolling data-slates, he might have kept one of these for himself.
That earlier golden-black jetbike he had commissioned was merely a gesture, meant to bridge closeness with the White Scar warriors.
But riding? That was not his taste.
"These additions are wasted!"
Khan's heart bled as he listened.
Such generous compartments—why not pack them with more weapons, more ammunition?
With a Primarch's constitution, he could survive on dust if he had to, and hunt his meals in warzones.
What need had he for fresh food—or iced cola?
Not when he had the warp-born powers of the soul!
Yet this was the Hope Dominion's way: power wedded to humanity, unlike the Imperium's cold austerity.
Even so, the Pale Eagle's power surpassed Moon Dragon by several magnitudes. In forbidden functions, it could never be rivaled.
This was the steed of his dreams—perhaps the greatest mount the Imperium had ever seen.
Eden flicked a control.
The Pale Eagle's mechanical talons extended, morphing into a crueler, more raptor-like form, as though a cyber-hawk stooping for prey.
He fixed his gaze upon Jaghatai Khan, his voice like that of a tempting daemon:
"Old Khan, speak it loudly—does not the Pale Eagle outshine your Moon Dragon in every way? Do you still mean to refuse it?"
Khan's face flushed crimson.
Eden's words scoured him like lashes.
All eyes of the White Scar sons fell upon their gene-father, awaiting his answer.
Gnnghh—
Jubal had somehow picked up his dropped lamb shank, chewing it absentmindedly.
For an Astartes, food on the ground meant nothing—so long as it bore no taint of Chaos or alien filth, it was clean enough.
Especially this cut, raised from the purest Chogorian herds—far finer than the Imperium's ration packs.
Still, his attention was wholly on the Pale Eagle and his Primarch.
His heart was torn—he longed for that divine mount himself.
"By the Emperor… if the gene-father refuses, might I not beg the Hope Primarch to grant it to me instead?"
Such were Jubal's thoughts.
Khan, however, stood still. Breathing deep, he slowly closed his eyes—as though making the hardest choice of his life.
His brother… had simply given too much.
How could he refuse?
And deep down, he knew—if he let this slip through his fingers, he would regret it forever.
His voice quivered:
"You… you are right. The Pale Eagle eclipses my Moon Dragon utterly. I desire this sacred mount."
In the past, he would have fought tooth and nail to defend Moon Dragon's honor—dueling other Primarchs or defying the Custodians themselves.
But this time, he surrendered.
The White Scar Primarch cast away his pride as rider and engineer.
He… truly wanted the Pale Eagle.
"Old Khan, then this beast is yours."
Eden beamed, leading Khan to the mount and handing him its ignition key.
"Try it at once—see if it fits you. If anything displeases you, I'll have the Archmagi adjust it."
Khan's eye twitched.
To summon an Archmagos was no trifling matter: rites of binary invocation, tolling of sacred bells, tributes of resources…
Yet here Eden spoke of them as though they were mere mechanics, waiting at hand.
But he was a Primarch. His mind absorbed the Pale Eagle's systems with ease.
He mounted the steed and ignited its heart.
WHUMMM—!
The Pale Eagle shrieked like a hunting hawk, its exhaust spewing pale-white fire, its aura of power overwhelming.
Were a Tech-Priest here, he would have fallen to his knees in worship of its holy machine-spirit.
Khan stroked the rune-etched armor gently, as though communing with its soul.
From this moment, it was his.
And Eden Grant, the Hope Primarch, his truest brother.
VROOOOM—!
Khan twisted the throttle, and in an instant the Pale Eagle vanished in a blur, leaving only afterimages seared into their retinas.
The air stank of ionized plasma; only seconds later did the roar return from afar.
"Throne! That fast?!"
Eden blinked—such speed was lethal if control faltered.
CLANG.
All eyes turned.
Moon Dragon lay toppled, wheels still spinning.
The Pale Eagle's launch had clipped it aside, leaving the once-proud mount groaning in defeat.
The White Scar sons gazed after their father's vanishing silhouette—hearts exultant, but heavy too.
For there was only one Pale Eagle.
They too yearned for gravitic steeds, to ride with the wind into battle.
"White Scar warriors…"
Eden's voice drew their eyes.
"I have prepared a gift for you as well—your long-desired machines."
Moments later, transports arrived, disgorging silver-white crates across the camp.
Inside: row upon row of gravitic bikes.
Eden had anticipated their longing. The moment he acquired grav-tech, he had set his Forge Worlds to work.
Now, the fruits were ready—a surprise for the sons of Chogoris.
This new pattern bore the name White Falcon, designed for custom modification.
"Each of you will receive a White Falcon. Faster than the Custodians' Dawn Eagles."
Eden raised his voice:
"You shall be the swiftest warriors in the Imperium—none shall rival you!"
The White Scars stared, trembling with joy.
They had reached their dream.
Tough sons of the steppe, their eyes glistened red. They felt the Hope Primarch's love, as though he were their true father.
What greater blessing could there be?
Jubal struggled to contain himself, lost for words.
"My White Scars… though not my gene-sons, I hold you as my own. If you wish—you may call me father also, or at least… foster-father."
"Father!"
The warriors dropped to one knee, honoring him as though he were their Primarch.
"Brother, I've returned!"
Khan's laughter boomed with his engine, as he roared back into camp—unaware that in his brief absence, his sons had gained another sire.
Eden glanced at the Pale Eagle, now streaked with gore, and at Khan holding a freshly severed Drukhari head.
His eye twitched.
That face looked… disturbingly familiar.
(End of Chapter)
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