Caltrius had stopped burning, but the air still carried the taste of soot.
Aurelius stood at the edge of what had once been the northern district, now nothing but skeletal ruins and the jagged mouths of collapsed catacombs. Imperial Guard work crews labored under the pale daylight, sealing breaches, erecting hab-tents, and carving a semblance of order from the wreckage. The occasional rumble beneath the ground reminded everyone that the vaults below were not entirely dead.
He had remained here for two weeks after the battle. Not because his orders demanded it, but because the work was not finished.
The Guard needed someone whose presence alone could keep morale from bleeding away. And the people — broken, hollow-eyed citizens of Caltrius — needed a living symbol that the Imperium had not abandoned them.
The Custodian's armor was scarred now, streaked with matte-black repairs where bolter shells had bitten deep. He had chosen not to have it fully re-polished. Let the people see it. Let them know what had been paid.
The whispers began quietly.
At first, it was the Guard troopers. Men who had fought beside him in the catacombs spoke in mess lines and barracks, voices low but certain.
"The Custodian — he knew where they were before they fired. Like he could see the bolts in the air before they hit."
"I swear when I thought I'd freeze in place, he looked at me, and my legs moved again."
From there, it spread to the labor crews, to the civilians crammed into the aid lines. A name surfaced — the Emperor's Gift. It was not shouted in the streets, not yet, but it was spoken with a kind of careful reverence. As if to speak it too loudly might draw the attention of something unwanted.
Aurelius heard it himself once. Passing between supply convoys, a child clutching her mother's arm whispered it as he walked by. His stride didn't break, but the word lingered.
He knew what they thought they saw — the perfect warrior, unflinching, unyielding. They didn't understand the truth. The visions, the instinctive flashes, the pressure he could unleash to break enemy will — these were not tricks of gene-craft or training. They were his Haki. And that made them dangerous in a way the Imperium was not ready to admit.
Even the Custodes themselves did not speak of it openly. On Terra, it was recorded simply as "anomalous battlefield aptitude," locked behind the personal sigil of the Captain-General.
Three weeks after the vault's collapse, an encrypted vox-order arrived.
AURELIUS — RETURN TO TERRA. IMMEDIATE. —VALDOR.
There was no reason given. There didn't need to be. The Thunderhawk was waiting by nightfall, and the Caltrius garrison assembled to see him off. Colonel Vethren saluted sharply, though there was a hint of something else in his expression — not quite respect alone, but wariness.
"You'll be remembered here," the Colonel said. "Not just for the victory… but for what you are."
Aurelius held his gaze. "What I am is the Emperor's shield. Nothing more."
The Colonel almost smiled, as if he didn't believe it.
The flight to Terra was long enough for reflection. Haki had been the deciding factor in Caltrius, of that there was no doubt. But the way the men had looked at him — the way the whispers had grown — carried a weight he hadn't felt before. It was one thing to fight in the dark for the Throne. Another to realize that every action built a story others would tell.
As the ship pierced the Terran atmosphere, Aurelius's mind went to the Throne Room. The last time, the Emperor's gaze had stripped him bare. This time, Aurelius suspected the questions would be sharper. Not just about the war. About him.
And somewhere in the deepest chamber of his thoughts, he wondered if the "gift" would be seen as a blessing… or as something to be contained.