The veteran Astartes removed his shattered helm and said nothing.
He was a scion of the Lion, commander of the Dark Angels successor Chapter Vigil Angels—Chapter Master Saraph.
Days earlier, the Vigil Angels' Chief Librarian had foreseen a looming annihilation.
The danger would likely fall upon a nearby Fortress World.
This successor—founded in the Second Founding, and so obscure its name never made it into the Davio Codex—sent warning at once, and then burned for the system at best speed to reinforce the brethren garrisoned there.
That is the Vigil Angels' vow: aid any battle-brothers in need, at any cost.
They would not watch another Chapter repeat their tragedy.
From early M42, a great rift had torn the void, cutting this region off from the Imperium.
The Vigil Angels weathered wave after wave of Chaos attacks. Isolated, they lost their homeworld, their fortress-monastery, and many of their Chapter relics.
Ever since, they have wandered among the stars, standing against the darkness—
—and seeking any battle-brother who needed help, no matter how many scars they carried.
Even so, the Vigil Angels were a step too late.
When they arrived, they found only the galaxy-wide shadow of Chaos, the flames of ruin, and a Fortress World dying in its wail.
The brothers who had defended it were long out of contact; the space-borne fortress-monastery had burst like a flower of fire in orbit.
The Vigil Angels' own ships were lashed by an unknown strike and crippled.
They were lucky to escape with their lives.
In the viewport, the world's crust split slowly, magma venting into space like a cracked raw egg.
"The Fortress World and its system are dead. No recovery…"
Saraph's brows knit, his mood heavy.
No Imperial warrior takes it lightly when a world dies before his eyes.
Still less a Fortress World.
Fortress Worlds are vital planets—anchoring a lattice of bastions with nearby civilised worlds and void-fortresses, forming a tight defensive web.
They are hubs that hold the line against the heretic and the xenos.
Cadia was one of the most famous—guarding the Eye of Terror's mouth for millennia, breaking a dozen Black Crusades upon its anvil. (wh40k.lexicanum.com)
This world wasn't Cadia, but it was not far behind.
The Son of the Lion could not grasp what power had erased it—and everything around it—so effortlessly.
Worse, their ship had taken crippling damage the instant they drew near.
"Chief Librarian—did you catch even a thread of who did this?"
Saraph exhaled and asked softly.
He lifted his master-crafted power sword. Its blade, as if struck by an irresistible hammer, had been reduced to mangled scrap.
Cracks laced his armour; the power-plants barely ticked over.
When his warriors were cut down by the unseen blow, he'd charged to intervene.
At the barest brush of contact, his blade disintegrated—and he was hurled away.
From start to finish, he had never seen the enemy's face.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
The Chief Librarian's face had gone chalk-pale.
"My lord, the warp-interference is too strong. It's twisted every trace; all surveillance is ruined.
"Even we suffered psychic backlash—and we are gravely wounded."
Shame knifed Saraph and the warriors alike.
They had lost—without ever seeing their foe.
"By the God-Emperor… the Warp… it echoes again…"
Suddenly the Librarian's eyes rolled white; pale arcs crawled from the corners.
He seemed to lose himself, mumbling in harsh, clotted syllables.
Seized by some special influence, the old psyker fell into prophecy.
He spent the last of his strength and collapsed—spitting a final warning: "It is coming… Flee!"
Saraph blanched.
"Sergeant—by any means, push the ship to speed! Apothecary—now!"
He had never doubted the Chief Librarian's judgment.
It was thanks to that sage that they had lived this long in black times.
The Vigil Angels did not linger a heartbeat. They burned from the battlespace at their ship's best ragged sprint—
—to put distance between themselves and doom.
But the killing presence ghosted them, shadow to their keel—fixated on swallowing their battered frigate whole.
…
Days later.
A lone frigate crawled through empty space, leaving plates and pipes tumbling behind in a trail.
Its thrusters wheezed like a broken bellows.
This was their only ship—their last possession—and it teetered on the lip of failure.
On the bridge—
"We can't hold much longer. The Sons of the Lion may fall here."
Saraph's voice was frayed.
The murderous shadow had never relented. Days of hair-trigger watch had ground him down.
Worse, the old frigate was about spent.
As the tech-sergeant had said: "My lord, the main drives are near cleft in two. That we still fly is the Emperor's grace."
The tech-priest attached to the ship, of course, differed.
In his creed it was the Omnissiah's benediction that had steeled the machine-spirit and kept the engines turning—a miracle. (wh40k.lexicanum.com)
Daily they circled the drives, chanting binharic hymns, knocking their foreheads to praise the God of All Machines.
Whatever the blessing, it now seemed to ebb.
This ship's souls would soon lose their chance to run, swallowed by the blackness hunting them.
The Vigil Angels' armour was cracked to ruin, but they gripped their weapons tight, faces set—more in refusal than fear.
They did not fear death.
They feared dying before they could carry word of this horror—before they could warn nearby systems.
Saraph's eyes dimmed. "Tell me… can we hold until hope arrives?"
"My lord—hope never breaks."
The Chief Librarian's eyes were bound in blood-stained cloth.
Backlash had burned them blind—and there were no supplies for treatment now. They couldn't even fit him a pair of augmetic optics.
Yet the old warrior remained cheerful—as if nothing could break him.
He was near the oldest soul in the Chapter; his name a secret—his counsel, its character.
Different from other Sons of the Lion.
The Vigil Angels kept little hate. They did not hound so-called Fallen.
Truth be told, most of the Chapter had never known the truth of Caliban's betrayal or the Lion's fall. (wh40k.lexicanum.com)
Perhaps the Chief Librarian alone knew those hidden things.
He would not speak of them. He would not feed hate.
He believed the Lion's sons would master that hatred and return to their true course.
"Hope never breaks…?"
Saraph murmured, doubt fraying his voice.
In these years, the Vigil Angels had seen nothing but suffering and night across Imperial space—
Slaughter, famine, death, madness, and distortion.
World after world severed from Holy Terra, left to die alone, their people howling.
No one knew what had become of the Imperium—if the Emperor still lived—or whether the rest of Humanity's realm had also been ravaged.
Even this iron-willed Chapter Master was fraying.
Does the Imperium still exist?
"I dreamed of a lion waking in a shadowed forest," the Librarian said gently.
"And I dreamed of a golden sun, whose warm light drove back the dark and shone upon us.
"A holy sign of some kind.
"I know not its exact meaning—but the Lion's sons are not abandoned."
"What then do we do?"
"Endure—and wait for salvation. We may receive aid sooner than you think."
He spoke as if certain.
Truth was, he did not know. But he could not surrender any hope.
Because he did not—he had clawed back from damnation, fled the Warp, and renounced a traitor's fate.
Not to follow the one whose will had lulled the Lion to sleep.
They held on, a little longer, even as warp-squalls broke over them.
Daemons gnawed at their hull; ammo and rations ran to nubs.
The shadow drew close—any heartbeat and the jaws would close—
In that hour, the ship's vox caught a message.
Everything changed.
It was broadcast on an Imperial public frequency, able to reach almost any loyal ship.
It said:
"His Majesty Eden Grant, the Great Savior, will shelter any souls of the Imperium's darkened reaches. If you receive this message, follow the guidance to Dawn City and seek aid."
The Vigil Angels traded startled looks as the words rolled over a bed of sacred music.
"His Majesty… the Savior?"
Saraph frowned. "Since when did the Imperium have a second Emperor? Did Holy Terra appoint a new High Lord to rule as 'emperor'?
Librarian—have you heard this name, Eden Grant?"
He knew that in some ages, High Lords—or outright tyrants—ruled a region in the Emperor's name.
But in Terra they still styled themselves High Lords.
The Chief Librarian shook his head.
"In all my years I've never heard the name. Perhaps a newly risen warlord—we have seen many like him."
Astartes rarely loved politicians or empire-builders. They avoided Terra's storms of intrigue when they could.
That was not a warrior's duty.
"At least, it's news—the Imperium may have changed, but it endures."
The Librarian turned to his commander. "We should go to this Dawn City and pass on what we've learned of the unknown foe.
It might be a trap—but we must risk it."
"Yes. We go."
Saraph nodded.
It might be their only hope. If they did not seek aid, they would starve on this hull—
—or the shadow would finally catch them.
He gave the order. The Vigil Angels set course to seek Imperial support.
Soon, following the coordinates in the message, they reached a seemingly empty volume of space.
They replied with the data-string as instructed.
An icy machine-voice answered on the ship's vox:
"Unknown travelers, you have passed the first verification of the Machine-Goddess and are recognized as Imperial humans.
We will open Webway Corridor A3578, mid-section of the Vidar Passage in the Misty Expanse, and guide you through a safe route to Dawn City.
Maintain restraint. Do not harm any beings or structures of the Webway. Violators will be expelled."
"The Webway—since when does mankind control an xenos Webway?!"
Saraph and the Librarian stared at each other.
They knew what the Webway was—and what it meant. (A hyper-dimensional network first mastered by the Aeldari; access to it is a civilization-warping advantage.) (warhammer40k.fandom.com)
Before their eyes, space rippled. A colossal mechanical gate rose out of the void.
In an instant it had pierced the veil between realspace and the warp-interstices—an entity in steel, in open space.
The Vigil Angels did not dither. Before the countdown ended, their frigate plunged into the gate—
—and toward the fabled Dawn City.
Moments after they vanished, a tide of Chaos surged through the coordinates—
—and slowly ebbed.
A hateful presence had missed its prey. In a fury, it withdrew.
…
Within the Webway.
A smoke-belching frigate crept along an immense solid tunnel. Ramparts rose on either hand, marching to infinity.
"By the Throne… this is the Webway? What a titanic edifice of the xenos…"
Saraph could not hide his awe—and, at last, a breath of relief.
No ambushers lurked beyond the gate. Likely this was no trap.
The Vigil Angels pressed on, tense but hopeful, toward the unknown city—hoping the Imperium would answer.
But before long—
Alarms bristled. The warriors snapped to a fighting stance.
Greenskins. Legions of them, crowded along the Webway's flanks, rolling away to the horizon.
Platforms drifted in the air—hulking mek-rigs larger than the Vigil Angels' frigate.
The sight was so sudden that even dodging seemed impossible.
"What do we do?"
"Defensive fire? Or turn and flee?"
"At present, our chance of pushing through is near zero."
They waited on Saraph's word—sick with frustration.
They had just found the Imperium again—only to be wrecked by damnable xenos?
Then a new shout cracked across command-vox:
"My lord—look closer! Those greensk— they're wearing our Imperial Aquila!" (wh40k.lexicanum.com)
Only then did they see it.
On greenskin harnesses and on the towering mek-platforms—the two-headed Aquila, Humanity's sign, glimmered in the gloom. (wh40k.lexicanum.com)
And… the orks wore yellow hardhats, laboring in gangs—huffing and hammering to patch cracks in the Webway walls.
Overseers barked and thumped the laggards:
"Oi! Move yer gitz! Lazy grots get eaten!"
"Loyal boyz don't sleep in!"
"WAAAGH— ye hit da wrong git! I'm da boss 'ere—!"
The Vigil Angels stood dumbstruck. The tableau annihilated every expectation.
"WAAAGH, fer da Emperor!
We's loyal greenskins. Don't muck up da works when ye pass—or da Emperor'll clobber yer skullz!
Now… get movin'! I'm behind schedule!"
The frigate's public vox filled with a Big Mek's thick drawl—like a memorized script… with ad-libbing.
(Per Boss Rog's order: when unknown human ships appear, say the lines first. Establish contact. Avoid misunderstandings. Prevent friendly fire.)
"P… perhaps the Emperor's blessing. What else can we call it…"
They caught the gist. The Angels—worldview reeling—pressed on in a daze.
Whatever else happened, they had to reach Dawn City.
By grace or madness, the orks let them pass—no shots, no rams, no krumpin'.
"Honored travelers: welcome to Dawn City Redemption Spaceport Two.
Please stand by for boarding and registration. You will be escorted to the Astartes-exclusive district…"
Not long after—
The Vigil Angels made fast at a structure vaster than the Lion's Gate Spaceport of Terra, and held station under crisp guidance.
In the heavens above, streaks of fire slid like slow comets; unnumbered human ships flowed through the lanes.
Below the port rose a city like a miracle—splendor heaped on splendor.
A colossal statue, Emperor-like in bearing, punched through the cloud shelf—its face that of a stranger, a young man.
Plainly—the fabled Dawn City of the message.
In these years Saraph had seen too many worlds broken—had grown numb to darkness and pain.
Confronted now by this teeming peace, he shook to his core—
—speechless.
Not only he; every Vigil Angel on deck felt the same.
"By the Emperor…"
The iron-willed Son of the Lion trembled, and after a long beat managed: "Is this the Imperium? Is this truly Mankind's Imperium?"
Before their shock could pass, the welcoming officials came aboard and took their particulars.
Hearing Saraph's account of the unknown foe, they stiffened at once—
—and rushed the intelligence to the proper desk.
Then, ragged and patched, the Vigil Angels boarded a shuttle—bound for the Astartes' quarter.
Warriors of a hundred worlds were already gathering there…
(End of Chapter)
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