"I declare you innocent, and I declare myself innocent."
The words rang across the ornate gardens of the Imperial ship with the weight of absolute authority, yet carried within them a magnanimity that surprised even the Emperor Himself. Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Thirteenth Legion, Lord of Ultramar, stood before his gene-sons with the bearing of a true king, not the tyrant he could have been, but the statesman he had chosen to become.
The Space Marines of the Fourth Company remained frozen in their positions, bolters still raised, their superhuman hearts hammering against their fused ribcages. They had expected death, or at the very least, centuries of penitence crusades in the darkest corners of the galaxy. Instead, their Gene-father offered them something they had not dared hope for: forgiveness.
Guilliman's azure eyes swept across the formation of warriors, each gaze weighted with the accumulated wisdom of Macragge's political courts and the hard-learned lessons of a hundred conquered worlds. These were his sons, imperfect as they were, and in their imperfection he saw not weakness, but humanity, that precious spark that separated the Adeptus Astartes from mere weapons of war.
"Your loyalty to the Imperium is without question," Guilliman continued, his voice carrying across the garden like the toll of cathedral bells. "Your dedication to our father's vision burns as bright as any star in the firmament. That you would raise arms in defense of humanity's future, even against one you believed to be a threat, speaks not of failure, but of the very values I wish to have instilled in you."
The Emperor of Mankind watched from His golden throne(ship replica), His ancient features betraying the slightest narrowing of His luminous eyes, a gesture that spoke of profound satisfaction to those who knew how to read the Master of Humanity's subtle tells. Here was validation of His grand design, proof that His sons could rise above their base programming to become something greater than mere instruments of war.
Yet beneath that satisfaction lay surprise. The Emperor had crafted each Primarch with specific traits, specific purposes. Guilliman had been designed as a conqueror, a Son of War whose fury would burn across the stars like a cleansing flame. But Macragge had tempered that rage, its political necessities and administrative complexities reshaping the raw genetic imperatives into something more nuanced, more... civilized.
"Brother," Vulkan's voice rumbled like distant thunder as he leaned toward Blazkowicz, the XVIII Primarch's massive frame casting shadows even in the artificial daylight of the garden. His obsidian features bore an expression of profound relief. "Is this what you intended?"
The Salamanders' Primarch had seen through the careful orchestration of events, recognizing the subtle hand that had guided this confrontation to its inevitable conclusion. Vulkan perceived the careful architecture of political theater, a stage set not for tragedy, but for redemption.
Blazkowicz, the Primarch whose exploits against the Rangdan had already become legend, inclined his head slightly.
"Some truths require the harsh light of exposure," he replied in measured tones. "Better to lance the wound cleanly than allow infection to fester in darkness."
The admission hung in the air like incense, heavy with implication. This had been no accident, no fortunate coincidence. The arrival of the Fourth Company warriors at precisely this moment, their encounter with Guilliman under the watchful eyes of the Emperor and His most trusted sons, all of it had been carefully orchestrated.
Blazkowicz had recognized the danger inherent in Guilliman's reunion with his Legion. The warriors who had attacked him carried within their hearts a poison of shame and anticipated retribution. Left unaddressed, that poison would have spread through the ranks like a plague, creating factions, breeding resentment, undermining the very unity that made the Thirteenth Legion so formidable.
By forcing the confrontation into the open, by making it a public spectacle witnessed by the highest authorities in the Imperium, Blazkowicz had created a situation where Guilliman's response would become immutable law. No matter what private thoughts the Lord of Ultramar might harbor, the promise made here could never be retracted without destroying his own reputation.
But Blazkowicz had read his brother correctly. Guilliman was no petty tyrant nursing wounded pride. He was a politician in the truest sense, one who understood that power derived not from fear, but from the willing obedience of those who served. The Fourth Company warriors would not merely be forgiven; they would become some of his most devoted followers, living proof of their Primarch's magnanimity.
"Please stand tall, Space Marines." Guilliman's command cut through the air like a blade, each word precisely weighted and delivered. His gaze swept across the assembled warriors with the intensity of a scanning augur, cataloging every detail, every expression, every tell that might reveal the true state of their souls.
The Ultramarines responded as one, their enhanced physiology allowing them to achieve perfect synchronization. Backs straightened, shoulders squared, eyes focused ahead with the unwavering discipline that had made them the exemplars of their kind. Yet beneath that façade of control, emotions warred, relief, gratitude, renewed devotion, and something approaching religious awe.
In that moment, Guilliman felt the weight of true command settle upon his shoulders. Not the mere authority of rank or genetic superiority, but the genuine loyalty earned through wisdom and compassion. These warriors would follow him not because they must, but because they chose to. They had seen him at his most vulnerable, witnessed his capacity for mercy, and found him worthy of their faith.
The Primarch's features hardened into a mask of leonine authority, his voice rising to fill every corner of the garden as he delivered his judgment:
"Let your inner guilt vanish like shadows before the dawn! It has no place in the hearts of Guilliman's sons! You are Space Marines of the Thirteenth Legion! You serve not out of shame, but out of honor. Not from fear, but from love, love of humanity, love of the Emperor's vision, love of the future we fight to secure!"
The reaction was immediate and overwhelming. The assembled Space Marines, superhuman though they were, found themselves moved beyond the capacity of their enhanced physiology to contain. Tears, impossible tears, tracked down ceramite cheeks as voices raised in unison:
"Praise the Emperor! Praise the Great Primarch! Praise the Gene-father!"
The sound rolled across the garden like a tsunami of devotion, a hymn of gratitude that seemed to shake the very foundations of the Palace itself. The warriors dropped to their knees in spontaneous genuflection, their massive forms prostrating themselves before their lord in a display of submission that transcended mere military protocol.
But before the moment could crystallize into permanent tableau, an irresistible force pressed against each kneeling form, lifting them despite their superhuman strength and determination. The air itself seemed to thicken with authority as a voice of infinite majesty filled the space:
"Rise, sons of Guilliman."
The Emperor of Mankind had spoken, and reality itself bent to accommodate His will. The simple phrase carried within it layers of meaning, harmonics of power that resonated through both physical and psychic dimensions.
The Space Marines found themselves compelled to stand, not through weakness of will but through recognition of ultimate authority. The Emperor's intervention served multiple purposes. It preserved the dignity of the moment while establishing clear hierarchy.
The time for emotional displays had passed; now was the hour for the conduct of Imperial business. The presence of the Primarchs, the setting of the Palace gardens, the weight of ongoing crusades, all demanded a different tenor of interaction.
A court attendant materialized as if summoned by thought alone, his movements graceful despite the obvious tension that filled the air. His smile was professionally warm, carefully calibrated to ease the transition from high drama to mundane necessity.
"My lords, if you would follow me," he intoned with practiced deference. "Refreshments have been prepared to honor your service to the Throne."
As the Space Marines filed away, their enhanced senses picking up fragments of conversation that would fuel speculation for years to come, Guilliman felt the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place.
Guilliman's golden brows relaxed as he watched his gene-sons depart, their postures reflecting the profound transformation that had just occurred. What had begun as a potential crisis of loyalty had been transformed into a foundation of unshakeable devotion.
His gaze drifted to Blazkowicz, studying his brother with new appreciation. The man appeared utterly unremarkable by Primarch standards, no towering physical presence like Vulkan, no aura of barely contained violence like some of their other siblings. Yet beneath that mundane exterior lay a mind of frightening capability.
"A master of manipulation," Guilliman mused silently, adding the designation to his growing catalog of his brother's capabilities. But manipulation implied malicious intent, and there had been nothing malicious in Blazkowicz's orchestration. If anything, it had been an act of profound kindness, a surgical intervention designed to heal wounds before they could fester.
"Benevolent and just," he amended, recognizing the deeper truth. This brother possessed something rarer than martial prowess or psychic might, he had wisdom, the ability to see beyond immediate consequences to the broader implications of action and inaction. It was a quality Guilliman valued above almost all others, perhaps because he recognized a kindred spirit in the art of governance.
By forcing the confrontation into the open, Blazkowicz had not only resolved the immediate crisis but had created a template for future challenges. Any who might question Guilliman's fitness to command the Thirteenth Legion had witnessed his magnanimity firsthand. Any who might seek to exploit divisions within the ranks had seen those divisions healed through wisdom rather than force.
As the formal proceedings concluded and the participants settled into a more intimate configuration, the conversation turned to matters of strategy and accomplishment. The Great Crusade dominated every discussion in these times, its successes and challenges providing context for all other considerations.
Blazkowicz and the Emperor engaged in their own private discourse, their attention focused on matters of grand strategy that transcended individual battles or campaigns. It fell to the accompanying Custodians to provide the detailed briefings that would bring the newly returned Primarchs up to date on the state of the galaxy.
The golden-armored guardians spoke with the measured cadence of living chronicles, their enhanced memories allowing them to recite precise statistics and tactical assessments without reference to data-slates or cogitators. Their voices painted pictures of cosmic scope, hundreds of worlds brought into Imperial compliance each day, entire sectors cleansed of xenos influence, the borders of human space expanding at an unprecedented rate.
Guilliman and Vulkan listened with the focused attention of warriors born, their enhanced minds cataloging every detail for future reference. Both understood that their time of peaceful development on their respective worlds had been an aberration, ahead lay centuries of warfare on a scale that dwarfed anything in recorded history.
The recitation stirred something deep within their genetically modified psyches. Despite their individual personalities and the civilizing influences of their adoptive worlds, they remained creatures designed for war. The accounts of victory and conquest triggered responses coded into their very DNA, anticipation, eagerness, the predatory satisfaction of apex hunters contemplating worthy prey.
Yet it was the mention of the Rangdan that truly captured their attention. The casual way the Custodians referred to this particular xenos threat, the undertone of genuine concern that colored their usually impassive delivery, these subtle cues spoke of an enemy unlike any other they had faced.
The holographic projectors embedded in the garden's seemingly natural pathways activated with silent efficiency, transforming the space around the seated figures into a three-dimensional theater of war. The images that materialized were pulled from actual combat footage, sanitized for strategic briefings but retaining enough raw detail to convey the true scope of the conflict.
Guilliman's enhanced vision tracked the movements of thousands of vessels engaged in void combat above the world designated Morse, his tactical genius immediately recognizing the patterns of engagement, the flow of battle, the desperate intensity that marked this as no ordinary campaign. The scale was staggering, more ships than had been deployed in any single engagement since the earliest days of the Crusade, their combined firepower capable of sterilizing entire star systems.
Vulkan's reaction was more visceral, his hands clenching into fists as the projections revealed the true horror of Rangdan methodology. The systematic enslavement of human populations, the conversion of living beings into mindless extensions of an alien will, these were abominations that struck at the very core of his protective instincts.
"Blasphemy!" The word erupted from the Salamanders' Primarch like molten rock from a volcanic vent, carrying with it all the rage and disgust that his gentle nature usually kept carefully contained. His red eyes blazed with fury as he processed the implications of what he was seeing.
The Rangdan were not merely another xenos species to be conquered or exterminated. They represented something far more insidious, the systematic negation of human agency, the reduction of free-willed beings to the status of biological machinery. Every human who fell under their influence became a weapon turned against his own species, every act of resistance transformed into an instrument of oppression.
"These xenos, their very existence is a blasphemy against human life!" Vulkan's voice carried the finality of a death sentence, his usual compassion transmuted into something far more dangerous. "Mentally enslaving other civilizations, the Rangdan must be annihilated! They deserve nothing less than complete extinction!"
"I salute you, my brother." Vulkan raised his goblet with ceremonial precision, the simple gesture transformed into a moment of profound recognition. "Under your leadership, the Rangdan's plot was crushed, their threat neutralized. The Imperium owes you a debt that can never be fully repaid."
Guilliman followed suit "The galaxy is safer thanks to you, brother."
The praise was genuine but also calculated, both Primarchs understood the importance of acknowledging achievement while building bonds of mutual respect.
Blazkowicz's response was characteristically understated, his features maintaining their serious cast even as he accepted the accolades of his brothers. "Victory cannot be attributed to any single individual," he replied with unfeigned humility. "It was built upon the sacrifices of countless souls, each contributing their part to a greater whole. Without Leman Russ' support at the crucial moment, without the dedication of every warrior who stood against the darkness, there would have been no triumph to celebrate."
"What of Solas?" The question cut through the moment of celebration like a blade through silk, instantly transforming the atmosphere from one of camaraderie to something far more tense. Blazkowicz's voice carried undertones that his brothers were only beginning to recognize, the carefully controlled inflection of a man probing dangerous territory.
Moribus Solas. The name itself seemed to cast shadows despite the brilliant illumination of the garden. Among the scattered Primarchs, he remained the most enigmatic, a figure defined more by absence than presence. Where other missing brothers generated speculation and concern, Solas inspired something closer to unease.
The Emperor's reaction was subtle but unmistakable to those who knew how to read the signs. His psychic aura, normally as controlled as every other aspect of His being, flickered with turbulence. The golden radiance that surrounded Him dimmed slightly, as if some internal light had been momentarily occluded.
Guilliman and Vulkan exchanged glances, their enhanced senses picking up the shift in atmospheric tension. Neither had direct knowledge of their mysterious brother beyond fragmentary references and carefully vague official reports. Now, sensing the undercurrents of their father's reaction, they began to understand that there was more to Solas' story than mere isolation or independence.
"Where did he come from?" Blazkowicz pressed, his tone remaining level despite the obvious reluctance of his audience. "What exactly transpired during your encounter with him? The reports I've seen are... incomplete."
The Emperor of Mankind sat motionless for long moments, His ancient features betraying nothing of the turmoil that His psychic emanations suggested. When He finally responded, it was through intermediary, a gesture that spoke volumes about His emotional state.
The designated Custodian stepped forward with the measured precision that characterized all their movements, his voice carrying the formal cadence reserved for the most sensitive briefings.
"Moribus Solas was encountered during an expedition to the edge of the Ultima Segmentum," the Custodian began, his golden helm turning slightly toward the assembled Primarchs. "Intelligence indicated the presence of a vessel operating in contested space, its composition and purpose unknown. Upon investigation, we discovered a ship of considerable size, its passenger manifest... diverse."
In Imperial terminology, "diverse" carried specific connotations when applied to spacecraft populations. It suggested the presence of non-human elements, arrangements that violated the fundamental principles upon which the Great Crusade was built.
"The vessel contained various xenos species alongside human elements," the Custodian continued, his disgust now clearly audible despite his professional training. "They coexisted in apparent harmony, a state of affairs that represented a fundamental violation of Imperial doctrine and human dignity."
The revelation sent ripples of shock through the assembled Primarchs. To find humans consorting with xenos was disturbing enough, but to discover that one of their own brothers was involved elevated the situation to a level of crisis that demanded immediate resolution.
Blazkowicz felt pieces of a larger puzzle clicking into place. The Emperor's reluctance to discuss Solas, the careful omission of details from official reports, the sense of shame that seemed to surround any mention of their missing brother, all of it stemmed from this fundamental betrayal of Imperial values.
Rather than continue with secondhand narration, the Emperor chose to share the raw truth of His encounter with Solas. His gesture was subtle, a slight flex of psychic power that manifested as threads of golden light streaming toward His three sons.
For Guilliman and Vulkan, the effect was immediate and overwhelming. The Emperor's memory flooded their consciousness with the clarity of personal experience, allowing them to witness events as if they had been present during that fateful encounter.
They saw the moment of boarding, the Emperor's arrival on the alien vessel accompanied by His most trusted guardians. They felt His rising fury as the extent of the contamination became clear, humans and xenos mingling freely, the barriers of species and evolutionary imperative dissolved in a grotesque parody of cooperation.
And at the center of it all stood Moribus Solas, a figure both familiar and alien. His features bore the unmistakable marks of Primarch heritage, yet his demeanor suggested a fundamental disconnect from Imperial values. He stood among the xenos not as conqueror or reluctant ally, but as friend and equal, a position that violated every principle upon which the Great Crusade was founded.
The memory transmitted the Emperor's perspective with perfect fidelity, including the surge of rage and disappointment that had accompanied the discovery. Here was one of His sons, a being crafted from His own genetic template, not merely tolerating xenos presence but actively embracing it.
But for Blazkowicz, the transmission had no effect whatsoever. The golden threads of psychic energy struck some invisible barrier and dissipated like morning mist, leaving him untouched by the revelations that had shaken his brothers to their cores.
The Emperor's eyes narrowed as He recognized the failure of His psychic transmission. In the decades since their reunion, He had grown accustomed to Blazkowicz's unusual resistance to mental influence, but the extent of that resistance continued to surprise Him. Where other Primarchs might be overwhelmed by the focused attention of their creator, Blazkowicz remained entirely unaffected.
Rising from His position, the Master of Humanity reached across the space between them and grasped His son's arm. The contact was meant to provide a more direct conduit for psychic transmission, a way to bypass whatever defenses normally protected Blazkowicz's mind.
The result was spectacular failure.
Power erupted from the Emperor like a solar flare, His form blazing with the accumulated might of forty millennia. The garden was transformed into a miniature star system with Him at its center, His radiance so intense that even His superhuman sons were forced to shield their eyes. The very air seemed to ignite around Him as He poured more and more energy into the attempted transmission.
Vulkan covered his face with massive hands, his enhanced vision, adapted to the forge-fires of Nocturne, nearly overwhelmed by the display. Guilliman turned away entirely, his political instincts warning him that he was witnessing something that would have profound implications for the future of the Imperium.
Throughout the Palace, lesser beings prostrated themselves in instinctive terror. The Custodians maintained their stoic vigil, but even they could not entirely suppress their awe at their master's unveiled power. Space Marines trembled within their power armor, their enhanced physiology struggling to process the feedback from their heightened senses.
Yet at the center of this cosmic storm, one figure remained entirely unaffected.
"What are you trying to do?" Blazkowicz asked with genuine puzzlement, his voice carrying clearly despite the energies raging around them. His expression suggested nothing more than mild curiosity, as if he were watching an interesting but ultimately harmless display of pyrotechnics.
The Emperor withdrew His power as abruptly as He had manifested it, the golden radiance fading to leave behind only the ordinary illumination of the garden's artificial day. He released Blazkowicz's arm and returned to His seat with movements that suggested nothing more dramatic had occurred than a brief handshake.
For Guilliman and Vulkan, the display had revealed truths that would fundamentally alter their understanding of their family dynamics. They had always known their father possessed abilities beyond comprehension, but witnessing that power unleashed in full fury was a humbling experience. More disturbing still was the realization that their brother could resist such force without apparent effort.
If Blazkowicz could stand against the Emperor's psychic might, what other powers might he possess? What did his resistance say about his fundamental nature, his loyalty, his place within the Imperial hierarchy? These were questions without easy answers.
But there were more immediate concerns. The failed transmission meant that Blazkowicz remained ignorant of the details surrounding Solas' betrayal, details that might prove crucial in the trials ahead.
Recognizing the futility of psychic transmission, the Emperor chose a different approach. With a gesture that seemed almost casual, He manifested visible threads of golden energy that wove themselves into complex patterns above the assembled group. These were not attempts at mental contact but physical constructs, psychic energy given temporary form to display recorded memories.
The images that appeared were drawn from the Emperor's perfect recall, each detail preserved with crystalline clarity. They showed the interior of the alien vessel, its holds filled with a diverse array of beings that represented every category of xenos classification. Worse still, they showed humans moving among these creatures not as captors or reluctant allies, but as friends and companions.
And at the center of it all stood Moribus Solas, wine glass in hand, wearing the expression of someone enjoying a pleasant social gathering. His armor was simple, unmarked by the elaborate decorations that typically adorned Primarch wargear. His posture suggested comfort and familiarity with his surroundings, as if he belonged among the assembled xenos.
The projection trembled slightly, reflecting the Emperor's barely controlled fury at the memory. Here was His son, a being crafted from His own genetic material, intended to be the spearhead of humanity's expansion, treating xenos as equals. The betrayal cut deeper than mere disobedience or tactical error. It represented a fundamental rejection of everything the Great Crusade stood for.
Blazkowicz watched the images with growing understanding. His brother's situation was even worse than he had suspected. This was not a case of pragmatic alliance or temporary cooperation born of necessity. Solas appeared genuinely comfortable among the xenos, suggesting a worldview that was entirely antithetical to Imperial doctrine.
The images showed the Emperor's arrival in all its terrible majesty. One moment the vessel's main hold had been filled with the sounds of conversation and celebration; the next, it was transformed into a scene from the end of days. The Emperor's presence was like a star going supernova in an enclosed space, His radiance banishing shadows and revealing the full extent of the contamination.
The assembled xenos froze in terror, their alien instincts recognizing the approach of death even if their minds could not comprehend its true nature. Some attempted to flee; others prostrated themselves in futile gestures of submission. None of these responses mattered, the Emperor had already passed judgment.
But it was Solas' reaction that sealed his fate. As the Emperor began to manifest His power, as the air itself began to thicken with psychic energy, the Primarch dropped to his knees and spoke the words that would damn him forever:
"Please spare them, they are my friends."
Blazkowicz felt his hearts sink as he witnessed the moment of ultimate betrayal. There were words that could not be unsaid, positions that could not be retracted. By pleading for the xenos, by naming them friends, Solas had crossed a line that existed at the very foundation of Imperial ideology.
The Emperor's response was swift and merciless. His arm lifted in a gesture that seemed almost casual, but the power behind it was anything but. Every xenos creature aboard the vessel simply ceased to exist, their matter compressed beyond atomic limits until they vanished entirely from reality. No blood was spilled because there was no blood left to spill, they had been reduced to constituent particles and dispersed into the void.
The humans who had chosen to consort with xenos shared the same fate. In the Emperor's judgment, they had forfeited their right to existence by their willing participation in corruption. There could be no mercy for those who betrayed their own species, no forgiveness for the willing servants of alien influence.
And through it all, Solas knelt among the vanishing forms, his expression shifting from hope to horror to numb acceptance. He had known this moment would come eventually, the Great Crusade's expansion would inevitably bring Imperial forces into contact with his adoptive community. He had simply hoped for more time, for the possibility of explanation or negotiation.
Instead, he received judgment absolute and final.
The golden threads dispersed as the Emperor concluded His demonstration, leaving the assembled Primarchs to process what they had witnessed. The silence that followed was heavy with implication and unasked questions.
For Guilliman, the revelation provided context for many previously inexplicable policies and procedures. The Emperor's stance toward xenos cooperation, the absolute prohibition against human-alien alliances, the swift and merciless response to any hint of such collaboration, all of it stemmed from this fundamental betrayal by one of His own sons.
Vulkan's reaction was more visceral, his protective instincts warring with his sense of justice. Part of him wanted to defend his missing brother, to find excuses or explanations that might mitigate the apparent betrayal. But the images he had witnessed were too clear, too damning to allow for comfortable rationalization.
Blazkowicz sat in contemplative silence, his strategic mind working through the implications of what he had learned. Solas' fate was sealed, there could be no reconciliation with the Imperium, no path back to the brotherhood of Primarchs. But understanding the nature of his fall might provide insights crucial for avoiding similar tragedies in the future.
The Emperor's decision to share this knowledge spoke to the gravity of current circumstances. The Great Crusade faced challenges that would test every assumption, every principle upon which it was built. The Primarchs needed to understand not just what they were fighting for, but what they were fighting against, including the potential for corruption within their own ranks.
The Emperor, He had revealed more of Himself in these few hours than in decades of formal audiences. His disappointment in Solas, His satisfaction with Guilliman's growth, His complex relationship with Blazkowicz, all of it spoke to a being wrestling with the burden of godhood while remaining, in some essential way, human.
The truth about Solas would remain a shadow over future gatherings, a reminder that even the most perfect creations could fall to corruption. But it would also serve as a warning, a call to vigilance that would help the other Primarchs recognize the signs of deviation before it was too late.
The Great Crusade continued, its demands endless and unforgiving. But they would face those challenges with deeper understanding of themselves, their family, and the price of the future they fought to secure.
(T/N : This chapter felt like a filler chapter for me
Stay safe, brothers. DO NOT CONSORT WITH XENOS)