HOLY TERRA
SANCTUM IMPERIALIS
The throne room was silent. The Emperor had remained still for days.
The Custodes knelt before Him, unmoving. They had held their vigil without rest—waiting for orders from the Emperor of Mankind, for such was their sacred duty: to guard, to serve, to obey.
Then, the great golden doors opened of their own accord.
In stepped Constantine Valdor, returned from a mission assigned to him by Malcador. Beside him walked the former Regent of the Imperium, draped in his signature black cloak. This time, he carried a staff topped with a double-headed aquila.
Reaching the throne, Constantine knelt alongside the other Custodes. Malcador gave a deep bow.
"I have arrived, my Lord," he said.
At the sound of his voice, the Emperor opened His eyes slightly and leaned forward. Coldness—pure and ancient—glimmered in those golden eyes. Coldness that made Malcador's breath catch. In all his centuries of service, even in the darkest days of the Great Crusade, he had never seen such frigid resolve.
But he understood. If their positions were reversed, he too would be consumed by such wrath.
He looked carefully at the Emperor's face. Beneath the steel was exhaustion, plain and unmistakable. The psychic residue of His recent actions still saturated the air like static—thick, heavy, lingering.
"Has everything been prepared?" the Emperor asked, His voice as cold as His expression.
He had spent days considering His next move. His original plan was to leave Atrius in an isolated cluster—perhaps another galaxy entirely. Somewhere far from this one, where he might adapt to his new state without interference.
But now… Slaanesh was searching. Her remaining servants stirred. If they found Atrius before the Imperium did, it would mean catastrophe—for Atrius, the Imperium, and the galaxy itself.
He would not allow that. Not even if Atrius was born of her. He would not let her corrupt the one true light in this grim, dark universe.
"Indeed, my Lord. They await your orders," Valdor answered, rising.
"Rise," the Emperor commanded. The Custodes stood as one and began to leave.
"Stay," He said, stopping them in their tracks.
"I need one of you to volunteer for a task I have at hand."
"No, my Lord," Valdor interjected. "I will lead it personally."
"No," the Emperor said firmly. "I need you here with me. There is a galaxy yet to be conquered."
"But—"
"I know how you feel, Valdor. Do not let emotion cloud your judgment. He will be fine." The Emperor's voice, though resolute, had softened ever so slightly.
"Which of you will volunteer?" He asked the Custodes.
Valdor included, five remained in the room.
"I, my Lord," they said in perfect unison.
These were His highest-ranked Custodes. Their eagerness to serve could not be doubted.
The Emperor was silent for a moment, then turned to Malcador. The Sigillite nodded.
"I understand your willingness. But we cannot spare all of you from your current duties."
The Custodes turned to Valdor. So did the Emperor. This was the quickest way to make the choice.
"Maloris," Valdor declared without hesitation. "You shall lead."
"Very well. Brief him," the Emperor said. Valdor nodded and gestured for Maloris to follow him out.
"The rest of you, resume your posts."
Without a word, the remaining Custodes returned to their positions by the gates—leaving the Emperor and Malcador alone.
Malcador broke the silence.
"I've received word from Constantine's channels—Roboute Guilliman is awake and making his way to the Sol System."
"I'm well aware," the Emperor replied. "Not only him. All of them march toward Terra. I have summoned them."
Malcador's eyes narrowed.
"Are you certain, my Lord? The last time that many Primarchs were gathered on Terra... it ended poorly."
"Only my loyal sons are welcome home. Those who fell are lost to me. The warp storms are no more. The chaos has receded. Daemons now crawl in the shadows without masters. They would have come even if I had not called them."
He leaned back, golden frame gleaming.
"The gods are weak. Khorne slumbers. The rest are lethargic. Slaanesh came not only to reveal the truth of Atrius—but to feed on my emotions. She failed. I was prepared.
"Still, I know she won't stop. Her pride won't let her."
"If she truly conceived him," Malcador muttered, "then his arrival during the war was no accident. Her renewed interest now that he's far from you suggests… conspiracy."
"Indeed. That is why we must find him first. I orchestrated his disappearance from the warp. With that much stolen power, staying in this galaxy—anywhere near the Immaterium—would mean ruin. For all.
"If my calculations were correct, based on the runes on his armor, he should be in a distant cluster. Maybe even another galaxy. Far beyond the gods' influence. His talent for adaptation should help him survive."
"You had all of this planned," Malcador said, with rare dry humor. He studied the Emperor carefully. He could see it—conflict, deep within.
"Yes," the Emperor admitted. "From the moment I discovered he could siphon faith. They call me Anathema. But Atrius… he is their true nightmare."
He paused.
"My only regret is that I used him against his will. He didn't understand what I intended—not until the very end."
Malcador nodded, voice gentler.
"It may have seemed uncaring, but it was necessary. Only he could do what he did. He craved purpose. You gave him that."
"But at what cost?" the Emperor whispered. "I bought time for galactic unification… at the price of exiling him. He may never see what his sacrifice achieved."
Silence lingered, heavy and uncertain. Then, Malcador conjured a small device from his sleeve. Circular. It spun with a mechanical hum, casting green light before projecting an image:
A colossal golden hand—open, steady. In its palm sat a child. Small. Feeble, yet already showing strength.
The child looked toward the recorder, his expression curious. Innocent.
Red eyes glimmered like rubies. Dusky skin, light gray hair already beginning to grow. He reached a hand toward the camera, playful.
Before his fingers could touch the lens, the recording ended.
A sigh escaped the throne. Human emotion… It clouded logic. Yet it could not be ignored.
"My Lord…" Malcador began hesitantly. "If I may—what do you intend to do with him, if he is found?"
"Prepare them for the voyage," the Emperor replied, deftly avoiding the question. "Give them the best of everything. They'll need it."
Malcador bowed. "As you command, my Lord."
He turned to leave—
"He has spent millennia in my presence," the Emperor said, voice distant. "He is everything I am… and more. What do you think he will do in an unfamiliar galaxy?"
Malcador paused.
"I believe," he said carefully, "he will try to return. With his potential, that is not impossible."
The Emperor said nothing for a moment.
"In truth, I can no longer feel his presence in the warp. It's as if… he no longer exists. Only a faint trail remains. A shadow. A direction—no destination."
"I see, my Lord," Malcador replied, eyes narrowing slightly in comprehension.
"I shall begin preparations."