Guilliman stared at Rhodes, shock written all over his face, hardly believing his own ears.
Rogal Dorn had actually been captured by the Necron Overlord Trazyn the Infinite—and Rhodes had rescued him!
That was a lot to take in.
Still, Guilliman quickly adjusted his mindset, turned to Rhodes with a grave expression, and asked, "Rhodes, how is Rogal Dorn now? Is he all right? He wasn't subjected to any strange experiments, was he?"
The Necrons possessed extremely advanced technology—up to and including nanite swarms that could invade a human brain and seize control of the host.
Dorn had been held for nearly ten thousand years; who knew what a Necron might have done to him?
"You can relax. He's in excellent shape," Rhodes replied. "You know I have a med-bay that can perfectly treat injuries. I even restored his severed arm."
Wasn't that the truth. The Imperial Fists had kept Dorn's severed arm as a holy relic aboard the Phalanx. And now Rhodes had brought their beloved father back—and fixed the severed hand to boot.
"That's truly good news. Bring him here at once," Guilliman said. "Every Primarch's return is a momentous event for the Imperium—of immense significance."
Rhodes nodded and shot a look to Tartarus at his side. The latter immediately caught his master's meaning, opened a portal, and returned to Rhodes's flagship.
This time, instead of transporting Dorn alone, Tartarus opened a huge portal corridor and brought Rhodes's spaceborne mothership through.
Since his master had come to Holy Terra, it wasn't ideal to leave the Pedan mothership elsewhere. Besides, the two matriarchs had already been settled on the Phantasm Beast world to recuperate, and there were no real secrets left aboard—unless you counted the clone Rhodes had hidden away.
Tartarus, however, had concealed that clone flawlessly, ensuring no one would discover it—not even the Emperor of Mankind.
Before long, a colossal planetary mothership returned to orbit over Holy Terra and docked at the nearest spaceport.
Rhodes's gene-sons, following his orders, returned to their training base to rest and drill.
Dorn, meanwhile, was ferried back to the Imperial Palace on Holy Terra aboard a transport.
After ten millennia, Rogal Dorn once more set foot on a world that was achingly familiar: the adopted homeworld of the Imperial Fists.
Gazing up at the golden, majestic palace, Dorn felt something both familiar and xenos.
Ten thousand years ago, he had fought here in the Siege of Terra against Horus. After that war, he'd clashed head-on with Guilliman, opposing the Codex Astartes.
What right did you have?
During the defense of Terra you didn't even show your face—yet in the end you laid down all the rules, shackling the Legions. We who bled to defend the Emperor were made to submit to your penalties.
Dorn had spat upon Guilliman's Chapter doctrine and was the first to rise in opposition.
But back then, Jaghatai Khan, the eldest among the Primarchs, the Lion El'Jonson, and even Vulkan stood at Guilliman's side.
As Praetorian of Terra, Dorn had refused to split his Legion and had quarreled fiercely with the Ultramarines. After much soul-searching, he had finally yielded.
As much as he hated to admit it, with the outbreak of the Horus Heresy, the Great Crusade was truly over. The Astartes Legions were stepping off the stage of history.
Yet ten thousand years later, the galaxy itself had delivered a verdict: Guilliman's choice had been wrong. The so-called Codex Astartes, the Chapters—were trash.
If not, then why did you abolish that roll of toilet paper? Why did you rebuild the Legions?
Seething, Dorn pushed open the gates to the Imperial Palace and found Guilliman waiting with a welcoming smile.
Dorn's fist—like a sledgehammer—smashed into his brother's face.
Caught completely off guard, Guilliman went flying, tumbled three times, and only then scrambled to his feet, staring speechlessly at his brother. He'd come in good faith to welcome him home, and this was the greeting he received.
Rhodes, standing off to the side, watched with barely concealed glee; he'd been looking forward to this moment.
Now, with Rhodes's help, Dorn had attuned to the Golden Phantasm Beast. While the Golden Phantasm Beast was not on the same level as Guilliman's cosmic Black Tortoise, Dorn had ascended to the level of a superlative lifeform and awakened to the essence of a Warp-god.
The gulf between them was no longer unbridgeable.
"Guilliman, you idiot," Dorn snarled. "Look at the reforms you made. Look at the rules you wrote. Look at the Imperium today. Time has proven you wrong. You should have listened to me."
Roboute Guilliman rose, wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, and sighed helplessly.
"My brother, you still can't let go of that chapter of history. After the Heresy, I knew chapterfication had its dangers. But at the time, it had to be done.
"And the Chapter doctrine—I intended it only for a few centuries, a millennium at most. Then I would restore the Legion system. The Imperium needed to recuperate, and massive Legions do not favor recovery.
"That's why I made those reforms. I simply didn't have time to reverse them before Fulgrim wounded me. I slept for ten thousand years."
Who could understand his agony? Sitting in that seat, he had to consider the whole. Who could have foreseen Fulgrim's blow—and then lying on Macragge for a full ten millennia?
"You idiot. You fool," Dorn snapped. "But I'm back now. I'll correct your mistakes. I will lead my Legion again and sweep away every enemy of our Father and of humanity."
Just as the Lion could not relinquish the title of Warmaster of the Imperium, Dorn was deeply dissatisfied that the role of Lord Regent had fallen to Guilliman.
Why should that position be his? Was Dorn unfit?
You, Roboute Guilliman—do you have superior political acumen and matchless military genius? You didn't even fight in that defense, while I did. I am the true bulwark of Terra.
As for the Lord Regent's seat—forget it. It was done. He would say no more.
"If you're still angry, I'll stand right here and let you hit me a few more times," Guilliman said with a wry smile. "Until you've had your fill. How about it, brother?"
"Hmph. If punching you a few more times could make up for the Imperium's losses over the past ten thousand years, I would gladly do it," Dorn said.
But it would change nothing. And he had another matter on his mind besides—Rhodes had told him many troubling things.
"Guilliman, was Magnus truly acting on Father's orders when he went undercover among the Ruinous Powers?"
There were too many suspicious points. Magnus had indeed betrayed them then, and even struck at the Emperor on Holy Terra.
Yet now, waking into this era, he found that the once-traitor Primarch had returned to the fold—had even become the Imperial Chancellor—and would, in rotation, sit upon the Golden Throne to guide the Astronomican.
"That is the truth, Dorn," Guilliman said. "Father sees farther than any of us, and Magnus has borne the burden. Since his return he has given us numerous true names of daemons, enabling the Imperium to banish them successfully, and devised special sorceries allowing the Grey Knights to enslave Warp-daemons. His ten millennia of infiltration have yielded immense benefits to the Imperium. His gene-sons have fought for humanity throughout."
Only he, Rhodes, and Horus knew the full truth about Magnus. The Emperor had placed a gag order. The other Primarchs would know only one thing: Magnus had gone undercover.
"Hmph. I want to see him," Dorn said.
After knowing Guilliman for so many years, Dorn could read him like a book. There was more to this. Guilliman could stay tight-lipped. Rhodes could keep a secret. But Magnus himself—would he dare meet Dorn's gaze?
"Magnus is very busy," Guilliman said. "He's on the Golden Throne now. Every few months he and Father rotate, stabilizing the Throne and easing Father's burden. Father has already regained a semblance of human form and can speak with us."
"Then I'll pay my respects in person!" Dorn shoved past Guilliman and strode into the depths of the Imperial Palace.
Led by the Custodian Guard through hall after hall, Rogal Dorn finally stood before the Emperor.
The man before him was completely different from ten millennia past. When He first took the Throne, though weakened, He had still appeared as a normal human.
Now their Father's hair was withered, His frame gaunt to the extreme—skin and bones.
Dorn did not know that, before Rhodes's arrival, the Emperor had been much worse—little more than a desiccated corpse. By comparison, this was the best He had looked in ten thousand years.
At His side, Magnus sat, psychic might pouring from him to steady the Golden Throne, suppress the Webway's energies, and keep the Astronomican aflame.
Rhodes and Guilliman entered the chamber as well.
"Father!" Dorn knelt before the Emperor.
"Dorn, my son," the Emperor said. "I rejoice at your return. Welcome home."
"I am sorry, Father," Dorn said, kneeling with deep remorse. "I failed. I was captured by a xenos for ten thousand years. I was not by Your side to protect You, and You have been reduced to this state."
Had he not been careless—had that cursed xenos not taken him and held him all that time—he would never have allowed his Father to become so wretched.
"I am much improved now," the Emperor said. "If you had seen me a few years ago, you would have been far more distressed."
Back then He had been a dried corpse, His psyche split into countless shards. With Rhodes's help, He had unified His negative personae into a single Dark Emperor—and Rhodes had found a way to suppress that Dark Emperor.
"Father, I have words for Magnus," Dorn said, looking to the Primarch seated beside the Throne.
"Magnus is helping me stabilize the Golden Throne," the Emperor said. "He has no leisure for reminiscences. In a month or two, when we rotate and he steps down, then you may speak at length."
With Magnus sharing the burden, the Emperor had recovered well. At this rate, perhaps within a few centuries He could rise from the Golden Throne and reclaim the visage of the Emperor of Mankind. But to leave the Throne would require a solution for the Dark King—or power enough that the Dark King would never wake.
"Magnus—did Father truly send you to infiltrate the Ruinous Powers?" Dorn asked.
At that, Magnus, seated on the Throne, shuddered, slowly opened his eyes, and glanced down at Dorn with a hint of guilt.
The Emperor laid a withered hand upon Magnus's shoulder and nodded, bidding him focus on maintaining the Throne.
"Magnus undertook that mission at my command," the Emperor said. "For ten millennia he has labored, gathering intelligence on Chaos. With that knowledge, we have been able to suppress the Ruinous Powers—for now."
"I understand," Dorn said. "Magnus, when you step down from the Golden Throne, you and I will speak—alone."
It seemed the Emperor had forgiven Magnus. But that guilty look had told Dorn much.
"Since you have returned—and attuned to a cosmic beast—lead your Legion well and serve the Imperium," the Emperor said.
Dorn bowed his head, knelt once more to the Emperor, then turned and left the palace. He had to see his gene-sons.