The first weeks after Karthu'Zaal's death saw Karthax reborn in fire and steel. Orbiting the planet, the banners of the XI Legion fluttered on the voidship hulls that had not felt their Primarch's shadow in ten millennia. In the streets below, Mechanicus constructs hauled broken ferrocrete from the ruins while human laborers from the surviving regions, rebuilt walls older than their own family lines. Vox-networks crackled back to life, and the defensive grid rose section by section, its ancient macro-batteries to defend Karthax for the foreseeable future.
The people whispered of the Reforged Son—the giant in Silver, blue, and gold who walked the war-torn avenues without rest, his orders sharp as a blade's edge, his patience nonexistent. The old nobility whispered too, though their words were darker. Those whispers were heard, catalogued… and brought before him.
The Hall of the Penitent smelled of dust, oil, and cold stone. Lumen-pylons lit up along the walls, casting light over the black marble floor. Ancient paintings of the XI Legion hanged overhead—scenes of warriors in silver and gold carving through xenos hordes—now dulled by centuries of neglect.
At the far end, on the platform beneath those faded banners, Caelion sat upon the Throne of Esharion. The Hammer of Truth lay across his knees, its head resting lightly on the arm of the throne.
Below him, gathered in a wide half-circle, knelt the surviving nobles of Karthax, the guildmasters, and the more ambitious mercenary captains.
The Custodians flanked the hall in two perfect lines, halberds upright, gold plate shining in the dim light. Behind the nobles, Mechanicus adepts muttered to one another in bursts of binaric code, their optical lenses buzzing as they catalogued every gesture.
Caelion's gaze swept across the kneeling line. He said nothing for several moments. The silence spread until it became a weight in the air, pressing down on the gathered elite.
After a few more moments past, he finally broke the silence.
"You stand before me because I permit it," he said. "You live because your lives have… potential use."
One noble—a man in a faded red robe with a chain of office half-eaten by rust—bowed deeper, his voice showing his fear as he spoke.
"My lord, we did all we could to preserve—"
The Custodian nearest him took a single step forward, halberd angling toward his throat. The man stopped speaking instantly.
"You preserved yourselves," he said. "Not Karthax. Not its people. You hid in your stone keeps while the people starved. You sent levy after levy into the maw of war without arms, without training, and then congratulated yourselves for surviving the losses."
Another voice—this one from a woman draped in violet silks, her fingers twitching as she dared to answer. "The Chaos incursions—"
"—were not inevitable," Caelion interrupted, "They were allowed. You let corruption seep into the soil and the streets until it was easier to make pacts with traitors than to purge them. I know the names of those who traded with the forces in the Warp. Some are in this room."
That landed like a hammer blow. The nobles froze. A few darted glances at one another; others stared at the floor, their muscles tense.
"You mistake my presence here for negotiation," Caelion continued, standing up, the Hammer of Truth in one hand. The weapon's head was dragged against the marble floor, leaving a faint scorch-mark where it touched. "It is not."
He began to walk the line, each step slow and deliberate. He stopped in front of a mercenary captain with scars across his scalp. "Your company fled from the Plains of Esharion before the daemons were slain. Do you dispute this?"
The man swallowed. "My lord… the contract—"
Caelion's hammer moved in a blur. The blow took the man's head clean from his shoulders, the body collapsing like a marionette with its strings cut. Blood poured onto the marble floor.
"Your contracts mean nothing," Caelion said without raising his voice. "Your oaths are all that matter. And oaths broken will be paid for in blood." No one moved. They were all scared of what would happen if they dared to do or say anything that Caelion didn't like. And none of them were mind readers so they didn't know what would make him angry and what wouldn't.
Caelion looked over the survivors. "Those who remain will obey my decrees without hesitation. You will open your coffers, your storehouses, your hidden vaults. You will rebuild under my orders, or you will join the dead. You will feed the people before you feed yourselves. You will serve as my stewards on Karthax—or you will serve as examples."
He stopped before a boy no older than fourteen, dressed in the too-large robes of a noble house. The young boy tried to kneel lower, trembling as Caelion stood over him.
"You are the heir of House Bravonne," Caelion said. The boy nodded quickly. "Your father is dead by my order. You will take his place—under my hand. You will learn war and governance in equal measure. Fail, and there will be no heir after you."
"Yes… my lord," the boy whispered.
Caelion's gaze swept the hall once more. "Karthax will not be ruled by parasites any longer. Rise, all of you. Begin your service or begin your prayers for a clean death. The choice is yours."
One by one, they stood up, but no one spoke. This time it wasn't out of fear, but out of submission.
———
A few days after meeting with most powerful people of the planet, Caelion was dealing with another matter that was related to the former rulers of the planet. He already dealt with the ones who would replace the old noble houses, now he had to deal with the others who were collaborating with them.
Within the Plaza of the Penitent, the people had not seen a gathering of this size in centuries.
It was an ancient space, a vast square of dark stone surrounded by crumbling statues of the XI Legion's heroes from the Great Crusade. Most were headless, others defaced, the names of the honored worn away by time or by the will of those who wanted them forgotten. Above, the banners of the Penitent Blades now hung freshly restored—silver and gold trimmed in midnight blue—flying in the wind for the first time in ten thousand years.
The crowd was a mix of faces. Urban-born workers with the gray skin of malnutrition. Farmers from the plains still dusted with red soil. Gangers with tattooed faces who had been given reprieve from the fortress cells just to witness this. Above them all, servitor-mounted vox-horns buzzed with static, ready to carry the words to every region and manufactorum.
At the plaza's center stood the Dais of Oaths—a raised platform of black stone that once served for warrior's oaths before campaign. Now it was an execution ground.
Flanking the dais were two ranks of Custodians. Between them, in chains, knelt twelve nobles and power-brokers—the chosen examples. Their heads were bowed, some in shame, some in silent prayer to gods Caelion would not name.
The murmurs of the crowd grew louder as Caelion emerged from the shadow of the monastery gates. He came not in parade dress, but in full warplate, the Hammer of Truth held loosely in his right hand. On his hip hung Repentance, his ancient blade. He ascended the dais in three strides and turned to face the masses.
"You are here," he began, his voice amplified through the vox-horns, "to witness the first act in Karthax's rebirth."
He paced slowly behind the kneeling line of prisoners. "These… were your rulers. Your stewards. They swore oaths to the people of this world, to the Imperium, to the Emperor Himself. And they broke them."
"They hoarded grain while the people starved. They sent your sons and daughters into the jaws of war without arms, without armor, without hope. They bartered with the servants of the Warp for their own survival."
Caelion stopped and rested the Hammer of Truth on his shoulder. "Some will call this justice. Some will call it vengeance. I call it the Blood Price—and Karthax will pay it until this world is clean."
He stepped before the first prisoner, an elderly man in black silks whose eyes darted between the Custodians and the crowd.
"Lord Merthin of House Calvarre," Caelion intoned, "convicted of treason, hoarding, and consorting with the servants of Chaos. Sentence: death."
Merthin opened his mouth to speak, but Caelion was already moving. Repentance came free from its scabbard in one fluid motion. A single stroke took the man's head from his shoulders.
The crowd gasped—but no one screamed.
One by one, Caelion named them. Lady Orthis of the Azure Guilds—embezzlement and betrayal in time of war. Lord Veras Dorn—sale of weapons to heretics. Guildmaster Harvek—sabotage of Imperial defenses for personal gain.
Each name was followed by a blow of Repentance. Servitor lenses recorded everything, projecting the feed into every corner of the city.
By the ninth execution, the crowd was silent as a tomb. By the twelfth, even the gangers in the front ranks looked pale.
When the last body fell, Caelion planted Repentance into the stone, resting both hands upon its hilt.
"This is the beginning. I will rebuild Karthax—but I will build it on truth, discipline, and sacrifice. Those who serve faithfully will know honor and protection. Those who betray… will pay the Blood Price."
He pulled the blade free and turned to leave the dais. As he passed the Custodians, he spoke without looking at them.
"Hang the bodies at the Gates of Esharion. Let every man, woman, and child see them for three days."
"Yes, my lord," replied the Custodians as they moved to execute his orders.
As Caelion's towering form disappeared into the gates, the crowd remained silent. The executions were over, but the message would echo through Karthax for generations.