The air inside the Imperial Palace always carried the faint tang of sanctified oil and ozone. Aurelius's boots rang against polished marble in the Hall of the Ten Thousand, where golden-armored Custodians lined the flanks like living statues. Their gazes followed him — measuring, weighing, judging — as he walked the long aisle toward the dais.
At its center stood Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes, the Emperor's spear made flesh. Around him, eight Shield-Captains stood in a half-circle, each bearing the marks of countless campaigns.
Aurelius saluted with his spear.
"Reporting from Caltrius, my lords."
Valdor's voice was as precise and controlled as the blade at his hip.
"Your report is already in the archives. I want to hear it from your own lips. Every decision. Every death."
So he told them. From the first breach into the catacombs to the duel with the Chaos Lord. He did not omit the use of his Haki — though he called it what the Custodes records did, enhanced battlefield perception and morale projection. Several Shield-Captains exchanged glances at those words, unreadable behind their helm crests.
When he finished, Valdor studied him in silence. Then:
"Your performance was… exemplary. You saved a world that was already slipping into the abyss. Yet there are… questions."
One of the Shield-Captains stepped forward — Alektos, veteran of the Saturnine rings.
"Questions about the nature of this 'perception.' The Guard call it the Emperor's Gift. They claim you moved before the enemy did, broke men with a glance. That is not gene-seed, Aurelius."
Aurelius held his ground. "It is the will to see, Shield-Captain. And the will to break what must be broken."
Another, Jorath, folded his arms. "Or something else entirely. And 'something else' is a liability."
Valdor raised a hand. The hall fell silent.
"The Emperor will decide. Aurelius, you are summoned to Him. Now."
The Throne Room was vast beyond mortal comprehension, light cascading down from hidden vaults, banners of the Imperial Aquila draped like the wings of a god. At the center, on a dais of marble and gold, sat the Golden Throne. Upon it, the Emperor.
Even for a Custodian, the moment was staggering. Aurelius had faced death, seen the Warp's horrors, yet here, the weight of His presence was crushing. Every motion, every thought, was bared. He sank to one knee.
"Rise, Aurelius," the Emperor said, His voice both distant and immediate, like a thousand voices speaking in perfect unison.
Aurelius obeyed.
"You have been touched by something beyond my crafting," the Emperor said, eyes like molten suns fixed upon him. "It is not the Warp, yet it bends the fabric of battle. Show Me."
There was no refusal. Aurelius let his Haki unfurl — Observation reaching out across the Throne Room, Armament sheathing his body in invisible black-gold force, Conqueror's will radiating outward.
The Emperor pushed back.
It was not a strike of blade or fist, but a weight of will so immense it threatened to crush Aurelius to the marble. His Observation flared — future-sight flickering — but even the next heartbeat was uncertain under that gaze. He strengthened his Armament, bracing not just his body but his spirit.
Still, the Emperor pressed.
"You stand because you choose to. That choice… is rare."
Aurelius forced breath into his lungs, refusing to break. "I… will not… fall."
Then, as suddenly as it began, the pressure vanished. The Emperor leaned back, something almost like amusement in His expression.
"You will be watched. You will serve. And perhaps, one day, you will understand why I have not taken this gift from you."
When Aurelius left the Throne Room, Valdor was waiting.
"You have made an impression," the Captain-General said. "Not all will be pleased. Some will fear you. Some will wish to use you."
Aurelius met his gaze. "And you?"
Valdor's expression didn't change. "I intend to see whether you can survive both."