"By the Emperor… I've never felt this good in my life."
Clad in a brand-new black musculature-binding suit, Saraph drew a deep breath.
Comfort flooded him. Not only had every wound vanished, but his strength had clearly surged.
He was whole again—and soon he could march with the Imperial host to scour that unknown, dreadful foe.
"Milord, perhaps it's the suit helping," said the First Company Captain of the Angels of Vigilance, flexing his fist with frank amazement. "This thing is leagues better than what we used before. Must be the Imperium's latest issue."
An accomplished technical sergeant as well as a frontline officer, the captain could tell the differences at a glance.
The black muscle-suit used entirely new materials; its fit to the body was exceptional, letting it capture and return muscle power far more efficiently.
Only a short while ago, the Angels of Vigilance—hazy with exhaustion—had arrived at the Astartes District, and had then been sent straight to dedicated medical facilities.
These warriors had wandered and fought for decades across the dark places of the galaxy. Wounds and fatigue had layered upon them; many bore grievous loss of limb.
And still their will to fight had never dimmed.
Moved by such loyalty, the medicae staff honored them with the best resources.
They conducted full examinations and reparative procedures, and installed the newest composite-alloy augmetics.
Bodies were restored to fighting trim—some to better than ever.
"The Imperium of today is… kind," several Angels murmured.
For the first time, they felt warmth and respect from Imperial offices—felt, truly, like part of the Imperium.
Once, the Imperium's gaze on the Lion's sons had been wary, even fearful—
and a successor Chapter not recorded in the Codex Astartes, like the Angels of Vigilance, had too often been treated as suspect, a potential treachery risk.
Forget materiel or medicae aid; they had counted it fortune enough if no Inquisitor arrived to interrogate them.
But here in Dawn City, there were no strange stares.
It was as if they had always belonged.
Even the common folk spoke to them with open, kindly smiles—
not with fear, not with distant reverence, but with simple human warmth.
"Dawn City suits me," Saraph said, smiling from the heart.
Cut off from the wider Imperium for more than a century, the Lion's sons had expected hard, suspicious questioning upon return.
Instead, after a few drops of blood and a quick scan, the Imperial official had asked little else.
More: as holy music rose, the official and every Imperial present had stood to salute their return.
"Sons of the Lion—loyal warriors of the Imperium—your struggle in the dark is worthy of all respect. The light of your fidelity will forever shine upon you.
In the name of His Majesty the Savior, we welcome the Angels of Vigilance… home."
The warmth and honor brought wetness to old eyes. Drifting children had come home.
They longed now to stand before the Hope-Primarch, the Savior-Emperor—the Imperium's new sun.
Only when they were sure of a Primarch's truth would they pledge all trust and all fealty.
"Chief Librarian, have you heard aught of the Hope-Primarch?" Saraph asked as he led his warriors along.
The Chapter's elder refused to give any personal name—refused even to take a new one—so the brethren simply called him Chief Librarian.
"I have heard no tales of him at all," the psyker replied. "Perhaps he is one of the lost; the Imperium's proscribed vaults whisper of such things."
His new augmetic eyes—special make that actually amplified psychic vision—sparked with minute arcs as he spoke.
He liked them. He liked them very much.
"The Imperium has changed… profoundly," the Librarian murmured. "After the galaxy's great calamity, there is somehow… more hope.
I have also overheard much talk: that Dawn City will become the Imperium's capital, that many Imperial organs will move here from Holy Terra—
and even that our Emperor's new palace stands upon this very ground."
With the warp-sight to overhear far-off voices, the Librarian gathered tidings like a net.
The Angels stared, astonished. For all the city's grandeur, making it the capital beggared the imagination.
Perhaps it was good; perhaps aid would flow easier from here—aid to rescue their brothers still holding on in the mist-veiled sub-sectors of the Dark.
"By the Emperor… where is our armor?"
Back at the de-armoring bays, Saraph found the racks empty. Their weapons, their power-armour—gone.
Voices trembled.
Those standard-pattern Astartes suits might be ancient and battered, but they were the Chapter's last possessions.
Without them, they would go to war with bare flesh and empty hands.
"Tech-priest, where did our gear go?" Saraph stopped a robed adept of the Adeptus Mechanicus, tension tight in his voice.
He knew the Mechanicus' pride. Even in haste he kept courtesy—provoking the priesthood was folly when your life depended on their ships, armor, and guns.
Even a Primarch deferred to the highest Magi; so too would a Hope-Primarch be patient with his Sages.
"Oh—that pile of junk?" the young senior enginseer answered automatically, sipping nutri-oil through a feed-tube from the pack on his back.
He caught himself at once and bowed. "By the Omnissiah—my apologies for that ill-phrased remark.
Yes, a batch of equipment marked Angels of Vigilance came through. We've already logged it and sent it on for refit and preservation."
He described the chain of custody and, to the Angels' shock, said the Mechanicus would perform the repairs free of charge.
"Praise the Emperor. On behalf of the Angels of Vigilance, I thank the Mechanicus for such generosity!" Saraph blurted, stunned.
No one expected the priesthood to waive costs. Everyone knew the oil-priests pinched every dram of resource to feed their forges—and who would gainsay them?
They were the Imperium's most indispensable caste.
In dealings, a Chapter counted itself lucky not to be underpaid and overcharged, much less offered gratis work.
And so the Angels had grown used to fixing their own gear; only when utterly stumped would they beg the priesthood—usually for a half-repair.
Free repairs felt like stumbling over a chest of gelt.
"Hah! My old suit will finally be whole again."
"And my bolter—Emperor witness—it's jammed for years…"
They laughed despite themselves—even after their gear had been called "junk."
"Ah, and this receipt is for you." The enginseer's next words splashed cold water over their mirth.
He displayed a manifest. Every item the Angels had turned in was listed—many flagged.
"Per cogitation-scan, 36.5% of the items are beyond economical repair and have been scrapped.
Any reliquary fittings have been carefully removed and stored."
He sent Saraph a marked copy. "The remainder have entered full refit. We'll apply the latest methods—expect at least a 40% performance uplift overall.
We'll notify you upon completion."
Saraph's elation cooled, but he nodded. He had always known the truth: their kit was too far gone.
If seven-tenths could be saved—and made better—that was already a miracle.
He accepted the data on the small slate the Imperial official had given him earlier, then led his brothers on.
"What about those of us whose gear was scrapped?" one battle-brother asked, close to tears.
They were now truly unarmoured. It stung.
"We'll try the market district in the Astartes Quarter," Saraph said, paging through a simple guide the official had forwarded.
It described the District as the galaxy's only large Astartes gathering hub, with hundreds—perhaps more—Chapters resting or convening there.
Facilities and resources for every Astartes need: immense training fields and combat halls; a resource and arms exchange; conversion forges; war-reserve depots; a mission hall; webway gates to every reach of the stars…
In short: a happy home for Space Marines.
"Do we even have the means to buy new kit?" the First Captain frowned. "As I recall, the Chapter's ship-vault is so empty a rat could sprint laps."
"We'll see first. The exchange buys relics and antiquities. There were a few unknown pieces left in the vault—perhaps they'll fetch enough to trade."
He had hoarded relics for this very day, hoping to barter with the priesthood or nobles. Buyers had never come.
But the guide claimed the exchange bought all relic-goods, to encourage Astartes to collect artifacts while on mission—
tech-relics, or old culture and knowledge both.
By studying masses of such finds, the Imperium hoped to restore ancient technologies and lore and enrich the Imperium's great archive.
—
Whoom—
A Titan maglev speared into the webway and flashed through sector after sector.
The Astartes District proved even larger than they'd imagined—nearly planetary in scope.
Through the car's viewing panes the Angels watched the city race past.
A century "offline," they found the Imperium's new face both alien and wondrous.
Golden statues of the Savior in armor stood hands-on-hips; Astartes strode everywhere between avenues and hab-spires.
Vast arenas stirred their blood.
Gun-cutters and gunships thronged the sky, angling into different webway egresses—off to war.
The maglev braked at last beside the Exchange gates.
"By the Emperor…"
They disembarked into a tide of Astartes. Hundreds upon hundreds poured into the Exchange concourses, calling to comrades and swapping news.
New and unknown, the Angels of Vigilance drew little notice and fewer greetings.
"Let's go in," Saraph said, warmed by the roar and press of brothers-in-arms.
For the first time, they felt the nearness of the wider family.
Tong— tong— tong!
Hammer-strikes rang ahead. They followed the sound to a vast forge-manufactory.
A sigil—a hammer wreathed in flame—hung over the entrance.
Within, furnaces roared. A dozen Astartes in green power armour swung great hammers over anvil-blocks, sparks fountaining as they drew out plates and housings.
Salamanders—the master-smiths themselves.
Everyone knew their craft ran deep; Marines dreamed of their work.
Even here in Dawn City, Salamander forges were top-tier—hand-wrought, boutique excellence.
"These… are all for sale?" Saraph swallowed at the sight of gilt-trimmed blades and reliquaried guns on the display plinths—most of them master-grade.
He looked twice, and looked away. The Angels were too poor to linger where the wares could buy a hive.
They pressed on. Shops lined the avenues—most Chapter-owned—hawking alchem-bombs, Fenrisian spirits, bespoke toxins, and worlds' odd specialties.
Wonders everywhere.
Suddenly they stopped, breath hitching, before a sanctum-temple as lavish as any cathedral.
Gene-seed.
Inside lay ranks upon ranks of pure gene-seed—blank strains cultured by the Hope-Primarch for maximal adaptability.
They would suit nearly any Chapter. (Yes, there was some measure of the Savior's own gene-craft within.)
Any Chapter starved for new blood could petition here and receive these treasures—
hope in adamant flasks.
Like many Chapter Masters seeing the place for the first time, Saraph almost wept.
Across the galaxy gene-seed was so scarce that Marines died recovering it—often more lives spent than the seed itself could replace.
To see such wealth freely given… what generosity was this?
They watched stewards of several Chapters walk out cradling alloy seed-canisters, faces alight with relief.
Hope—bottled, blessed, and carried toward the future.
After a reverent salute, Saraph led his brethren onward, already resolved: once the Chapter had steadied, he would petition for seed and raise new blood.
The Angels would grow again.
At last they reached the Exchange core—the war-reserve depots run by the Savior's ministries.
There, shopfronts displayed every kind of armor and weapon.
In some zones, mountains of kit stretched to the horizon—
precious Astartes equipment piled like a wholesale market: thousands upon thousands of sets.
Beyond standard suits and Terminator Armour, he saw row upon row of Centurion warsuits—
and even racks of armour finished in blackstone-infused coatings.
Any Space Marine would be thunderstruck.
"How many Chapters could all this equip?" the Angels whispered, hearts quaking, wishing they could pallet-wrap the lot.
Only now did they truly feel the wealth of the Savior-Emperor. It defied imagination.
"Second Captain—bring the relics to the Exchange. We need their valuation," Saraph said, striding into a showroom to begin choosing a starter loadout.
He was already daydreaming: perhaps the relics would prove so precious he could walk out with ten Centurions—
the farthest a prudent Chapter Master let himself dream. More would be fantasy.
The reply shattered him.
The vault relics were gone.
A compartment breach during the last chaos squalls had vented the chamber to the void. Everything not bolted down had been lost.
The Angels of Vigilance were now penniless.
"Loyal warriors of the Imperium—if you purchase ten suits of Terminator armour at once, we'll gift two standard suits and a special melta weapon," called a cheerful clerk.
Saraph stared at the Terminator plate… then at the smiling attendant. His straight back bent a fraction.
His brothers, hearing the same news over vox, shrank a little and looked away from the shining racks.
It was the flinch of the destitute.
Every piece here cost thousands—tens of thousands—of Throne Gelt.
They could not bear to linger in a hall where they could buy nothing.
"By the Emperor, battle-brothers—do you require assistance?"
The voice was warm and sincere.
They turned. A stranger approached in red armour, his Chapter badge a birdlike device—blurred, indistinct.
He studied them with frank concern.
"Yes, we…" Saraph began, and faltered. Pride and need tangled on his tongue.
"I can help."
The red-armoured stranger seemed to read their plight. He stepped in briskly, took Saraph's dataslate, and keyed a few entries—faces, data, authorizations.
Moments later an account projection flowered in the air.
The Angels stared, mouths open, eyes flicking between light-runes and stranger.
"One million, five hundred thousand Throne Gelt. Where did that come from?!"
(End of Chapter)
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