The summons came less than a day after Aurelius left the Throne Room.
He had barely returned to his quarters in the Palace's western wing when a vox order flared to life — Valdor's personal encryption.
Deployment: Segmentum Solar — Myrridian IV.
Situation: Imperial Guard collapse imminent.
Objective: Secure beachhead, stabilize front.
No mention of support. No mention of other Custodians. This was a test.
The transit aboard the strike cruiser Unyielding Talon took six standard days. Reports streamed in across the voyage — fragmented vox-logs, desperate astropathic flashes. The Myrridian campaign had begun as a routine suppression of a secessionist governor. It had metastasized into something far worse.
By day four, Aurelius was reading battlefield augurs showing not just human rebels, but armored traitor regiments, daubed in the eight-pointed star. And in the void above, ships of unknown design prowled — jagged silhouettes that screamed of the Eye of Terror.
The Unyielding Talon made orbit in silence. The void was hostile, but Aurelius's mission was groundside.
The first drop took him into the southern trenchline — or what remained of it. The moment his boots hit churned mud, the stench of promethium and charred flesh hit him harder than any bolter.
The Guard here were ghosts in flak armor. Faces grey with exhaustion, hands trembling even when not holding a rifle. Commissars barked orders that went ignored. The enemy pressed less than a kilometer away, their heavy guns turning the horizon into a curtain of flame.
A sergeant approached, saluting with a hand that barely stopped shaking. "Custodian Aurelius? Sir — we've heard the stories. Caltrius."
The name carried more weight here than he liked.
He walked the line.
Observation Haki painted the battlefield in threads of motion and intent — where the next barrage would land, which soldier's resolve was seconds from breaking. He touched shoulders, met eyes, let his will radiate. He saw spines straighten. Tremors fade. The effect was not perfect, but it spread like heat through cold bones.
When the traitor armor rolled forward, Aurelius was already moving.
He vaulted the trench wall, Guardian Spear spitting golden bolts that sheared through corrupted plating. Armament Haki coated the strikes, every impact shattering engines and detonating munitions. The first tank died before its crew could even register his charge.
Behind him, the Guard surged.
Hours became a blur of mud, fire, and steel. The rebels fought with a fanatic's tenacity, bolstered by unseen hands. Aurelius felt them before he saw them — the heavier steps, the focused malice.
Traitor Astartes.
They came at dusk, crimson and brass under blackened skies. World Eaters, by the rhythm of their charge. The first met Aurelius's spearpoint and crumpled, his chestplate punched through by a Haki-driven thrust.
The second forced him back three paces, chainaxe screaming against his haft. Future-sight flickered in his vision — half a heartbeat into the next swing — enough to turn his weapon and drive a knee into the traitor's helm.
By the third, he was no longer thinking. He was the rhythm of battle, Observation and Conqueror's Haki working in brutal tandem — sensing, striking, breaking will.
When the counterattack finally ended, night had fallen. The trenchline was still in Imperial hands. The Guard were bloodied but breathing.
Aurelius stood at the center, armor slick with oil and blood, Guardian Spear planted in the earth. He was breathing hard, but not broken. The men stared at him — not with the desperation of before, but with something sharper.
Word would spread. It always did.
That night, in the shadowed command dugout, the vox crackled. Valdor's voice.
"You've bought Myrridian time. The next phase will be harder. This is no longer about one battle. We will see if you can hold a warzone together."
Aurelius closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the weight of it. This was more than a test now. This was the Imperium asking him to do what the Guard could not — to make them believe they could win.