The Emperor's grip upon Solas was iron-clad, unyielding as the very foundations of Terra itself. He dragged his wayward son like a puppet whose strings had been cut, each step resonating with the finality of judgment rendered. The psychic threads that had woven their minds together dissolved like morning mist before the harsh light of truth, leaving behind only the stark, unforgiving reality of what had transpired.
What unfolded was a tableau of racial hatred, murderous intent, and profound sorrow, a trinity of emotions that would haunt the corridors of the Imperial Palace for millennia to come. The Emperor had descended upon the xenos settlement like an avenging angel of humanity's darkest dreams, his wrath absolute and terrible. In his wake lay nothing but ash and silence, save for one survivor: his lost son, Moribus Solas, retrieved from the alien taint like a relic from a desecrated shrine.
Blazkowicz observed the scene with the calculating eyes of a warrior-philosopher, his weathered features betraying neither condemnation nor approval. The pieces of this tragic puzzle aligned themselves in his mind with mechanical precision. Here was the source of the shadow that clung to Solas like a funeral shroud, not mere melancholy, but the deep, festering wound of a soul torn between two loyalties.
He chose silence over judgment, for he understood the fundamental truth that others might miss: there were no heroes or villains in this tale, only beings acting according to the iron dictates of their nature and experience.
For the Emperor, the xenos were not merely alien, they were anathema incarnate. His golden eyes had witnessed the Long Night, that terrible epoch when humanity's scattered children cried out in the darkness while alien predators circled like vultures.
He had seen worlds stripped bare, populations enslaved or worse, the pretense of xenos benevolence cast aside when humanity was weak and defenseless. In those blood-soaked years, how many had he known personally, allies, friends, perhaps even lovers, who had shown their true colors when humanity's light dimmed?
The Emperor's hatred was not abstract; it was forged in the furnace of bitter experience, tempered by the screams of trillions. Every act of apparent kindness from alien sources was suspect, every gesture of friendship a potential prelude to betrayal. This was not paranoia, this was pattern recognition elevated to an art form.
Yet Solas... his son had not witnessed these lessons firsthand. To him, the beings the Emperor slaughtered were not ancient enemies of mankind but companions, perhaps even friends. The young Primarch's plea for mercy had not stemmed from naivety alone, but from a different understanding of what constituted threat and ally.
In that moment of confrontation, Solas had knelt before a figure he did not recognize as his father, his powerful frame reduced to supplication as he begged for lives that meant nothing to his gene-sire. The Emperor's response was swift, terrible, and absolute, the xenos were obliterated with such overwhelming force that not even atoms remained to mark their passing.
Blazkowicz nodded slowly, then shook his head with equal deliberation, his scarred features etched in contemplative stone. The gesture drew the attention of all present, causing the Emperor's perfectly sculpted eyebrows to arch in something approaching curiosity.
"Do you think I erred?" the Master of Mankind inquired, his voice carrying the weight of ten thousand years of absolute authority.
Guilliman straightened imperceptibly in his seat, while Vulkan's forge-bright eyes shifted toward his brother. Both Primarchs harbored their own thoughts on the matter, conclusions drawn from their own experiences and moral frameworks, yet neither dared voice them. The Emperor was not merely their father, he was the living embodiment of humanity's will, and to question him was to question the very foundations upon which their reality was built.
Blazkowicz lifted his wine goblet with the casual grace of a born aristocrat, though his eyes never left the Emperor's face. "Right and wrong are luxuries for those who stand in judgment," he replied, his voice carrying the dry rasp of desert winds. "You acted according to your nature and understanding. Solas did the same."
He paused to sip the wine, a vintage from some forgotten world, its taste complex with notes of victory and ash. "You ask me to weigh actions against some cosmic scale of justice? I am neither prosecutor nor judge."
His dark eyes grew distant, focusing on something beyond the present moment. "The answer to your question was written the moment you raised your hand against his companions. Every consequence that follows is merely the echo of that single, irreversible act."
The garden around them seemed to hold its breath. Ancient trees, transplanted from a hundred worlds, swayed gently in artificially generated breezes while exotic flowers bloomed in defiance of their alien environment. It was a perfect recreation of paradise, yet somehow it felt hollow, beautiful but sterile, like a memory preserved in crystal..
The Emperor's response was silence, not the absence of words, but their conscious rejection. His ageless features might have been carved from the same marble that adorned his palace, revealing nothing of the calculations occurring behind those golden eyes. When he finally moved, it was to raise his own goblet in a toast to nothing, the gesture somehow both regal and melancholy.
Regret was an emotion that the Emperor had long since burned from his psyche, cauterized like an infected wound. His actions were guided by necessity, by the cold mathematics of species survival. If there had been emotional excess in his treatment of Solas' alien companions, it was a flaw in execution rather than philosophy. The facts remained immutable: humanity stood alone against a hostile universe, and any compromise of that truth was treason of the highest order.
The Emperor drank deeply, his gaze fixed on some distant star visible through the garden's crystal dome. His thoughts had already moved beyond the immediate concerns of family drama to the vast chessboard of galactic conquest. Billions of human souls depended on his decisions, their futures hanging in the balance of his every choice. Personal affections were a luxury he could ill afford, yet he allowed himself these small moments of connection with his gene-sons.
The garden fell into contemplative quiet, broken only by the soft whisper of artificial breezes and the distant murmur of the ship's systems. The Custodians remained motionless as golden statues, their vigilance absolute and unwavering. Far beyond the garden's boundaries, the warriors of the Thirteenth Legion went about their duties with hushed reverence, aware that their Primarch communed with the Master of Mankind himself.
Guilliman and Vulkan exchanged a meaningful glance before rising as one, their massive forms moving with surprising grace. The sight of the Emperor's displeasure was not something to be taken lightly, and both brothers understood the wisdom of strategic withdrawal. They had their own matters to discuss, the uncertain future that awaited them all, the weight of expectations that pressed down upon their broad shoulders like the gravity of dying stars.
Blazkowicz drained the last of his wine with the methodical patience of a man who had learned to savor whatever pleasures the universe deigned to offer. Setting the crystal goblet aside, he lowered himself onto the perfectly manicured grass, his skin contrasting sharply with the emerald blades. His head pillowed on one his arms, he gazed toward the garden's heart where reality seemed to blur at the edges.
In that liminal space, memory and imagination intertwined like lovers' fingers. Solas materialized before him as he had been in life, tall and lean, almost gaunt, with silver-gray eyes that held depths no mortal mind could fully fathom. On the surface, the lost Primarch had seemed serene, controlled, master of himself and his emotions.
But Blazkowicz had learned to read the subtle signs: the tension in those broad shoulders, the way his hands would clench and release when he thought no one was watching, the occasional flicker of something dark and hungry in those pale eyes.
What psychological scars had the Emperor's intervention carved into his son's psyche? The question haunted Blazkowicz like an unsolvable equation. He had witnessed the aftermath, the gradual withdrawal, the growing coldness, the way Solas began to view his own Legion with something approaching disdain. Not hatred, never hatred, but a kind of protective distance that spoke of deeper calculations.
The truth crystallized in Blazkowicz's mind with the clarity of a blade drawn from its sheath. Solas was no fool, direct confrontation with the Emperor was impossible. The Master of Mankind wielded power that dwarfed even a Primarch's considerable abilities. But if one could not strike at the source of their grievance, there remained other targets. More vulnerable targets.
His eyes snapped open, pupils dilating as the full implications hit him like a thunderbolt. The Emperor cherished few things in this universe, but chief among them was humanity itself, not just the species, but the grand project of the Imperium that would secure their future among the stars.
"Moribus Solas," Blazkowicz breathed, his voice barely audible above the garden's ambient sounds. "You brilliant, twisted fool. How long have you been planning your revenge?"
The pieces fell into place with sickening clarity. The mysterious intelligence leaks that had plagued recent campaigns. The Rangdan's inexplicable knowledge of Imperial tactics and deployments. The gradual degradation of the Second Legion's effectiveness, their Primarch's apparent indifference to their plight masking a deeper, more protective instinct.
Blazkowicz sat up abruptly, his warrior's instincts screaming danger. His eyes locked onto the Emperor, who sat in meditative stillness, perhaps unaware of the threat that had been growing in the shadows of his own family.
The Master of Mankind's eyes opened, sensing his son's sudden tension. "What revelation has struck you, my son?"
Blazkowicz glanced around the garden, confirming their relative privacy before leaning closer. His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, each word carefully chosen. "You must contact Alpharius immediately. Have him investigate Solas with all the resources at his disposal."
The Emperor's expression shifted subtly, amusement flickering in his golden eyes. "Do you fear for my safety? Your concern is noted and appreciated, but Solas poses no direct threat to, "
"Not to you," Blazkowicz interrupted, his urgency overriding protocol. "To everything you've built. To the Imperium itself."
The weight of his words settled between them like a stone cast into still water. The Emperor's amusement evaporated, replaced by the calculating coldness that had conquered a galaxy.
Blazkowicz pressed on, his voice gaining strength as the implications became clearer. "He cannot harm you directly, so he strikes at what you value most. The intelligence breaches, the Rangdan's tactical advantages, I believe they trace back to him. And the Second Legion..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I don't think he despises them. I think he's protecting them from the consequences of his own actions."
The picture that emerged was one of calculated betrayal wrapped in paternal love. Solas, unable to forgive his father's actions but equally unable to strike directly, had chosen a more insidious form of revenge. If he could not save his alien friends, perhaps he could ensure that humanity paid a price for their deaths, not through direct action, but through the slow poison of sabotage and misdirection.
The Emperor absorbed this revelation with the stoic acceptance of one who had seen every possible permutation of treachery. His response, when it came, was measured and decisive. "A covert investigation alone will not suffice. Sometimes the mouse must be made aware of the cat's presence, that fear might stay its hand from further mischief."
He paused, his mind already formulating countermeasures with the speed of thought. "The Officio Assassinorum will conduct an overt investigation, while the Alpha Legion handles the more... delicate inquiries. Two approaches for maximum effectiveness."
Blazkowicz nodded approvingly. The strategy was sound, legal scrutiny to maintain the facade of due process, coupled with the shadowy expertise of the Hydra for matters that required a more subtle touch. It would put Solas on notice while providing plausible cover for the Emperor's suspicions.
"Deploy auditors to all the Legions," Blazkowicz suggested, thinking several moves ahead. "If you single out only Solas, it will breed resentment and suspicion among the others. Make it appear as though this is routine oversight, a necessary evolution of Imperial governance as the Great Crusade expands."
The wisdom of this approach was immediately apparent. The Primarchs were proud beings, each one a living legend in their own right. To single out one of their number without overwhelming evidence would risk fracturing the unity that held the Imperium together. Better to cast a wide net and allow Solas to conclude that he was merely one face in a crowd of potential suspects.
"Include the Twenty-First Legion in your investigations," Blazkowicz added with a wry smile. "I have no desire to be excluded from this grand exercise in paranoia."
The Emperor's lips curved in something that might have been amusement. "Equality in suspicion, a democratic approach to tyranny. Very well, it shall be as you suggest."
Their conversation was interrupted by the subtle shift in the ship's movement that indicated a return to realspace. Through the crystal dome above, the swirling madness of the Warp gave way to the cold light of stars, and among them hung a jewel of blue and green that could only be Macragge.
Guilliman appeared at the garden's entrance, his bearing proud and expectant. "Welcome to my world," he announced, gesturing toward the viewport where his homeworld turned in stately majesty beneath them.
Vulkan joined his brother, his eyes widening at the sight of vast oceans stretching to every horizon. "Magnificent," he breathed, his forge-world origins making the abundance of water seem almost miraculous. "On Nocturne, we have seas of lava, lakes of glass. But this... this is what the ancient texts called paradise."
Blazkowicz smiled at his brother's wonder, remembering his own first glimpse of Vulkan's volcanic homeworld. Each Primarch's world had shaped them in unique ways, forging strengths and weaknesses that would echo through eternity. "Every world has its own beauty," he offered diplomatically. "Nocturne's fires forge the strongest souls, just as Macragge's order creates the finest administrators."
The compliment eased any potential awkwardness, and Vulkan's smile broadened. "You speak truly, brother. Fire tests what water nurtures, both have their place in the grand design."
Their moment of fraternal bonding was interrupted by the harsh blare of proximity alarms. Blazkowicz's enhanced senses immediately identified the source, Macragge's planetary defense systems had activated, their weapons training on the approaching Imperial fleet.
"By the Throne," Guilliman muttered, his face flushing with embarrassment. "They don't recognize us. They think we're invaders!"
The irony was not lost on any of them, the Lord of Macragge returning home only to be greeted as a potential enemy. Guilliman's hurried departure from the garden was almost comical, his dignity warring with the urgent need to prevent a tragic misunderstanding.
On Macragge's surface, chaos reigned in the halls of power. The planetary government had received fragmentary reports from returning fleet elements, garbled communications speaking of their lord's disappearance and mysterious encounters in the void. Now a massive fleet had appeared in their system, warships of unfamiliar design bearing standards no one recognized.
In the marble halls of the Macragge Senate, panic warred with duty as officials struggled to coordinate a response. Some called for immediate surrender, others for a fighting retreat to the outer colonies. The absence of their guiding light, Roboute Guilliman, left them rudderless in the face of apparent catastrophe.
Among them all, one figure stood apart in her composed dignity. Tarasha Euten, foster mother to the King of Macragge, watched the approaching fleet through tall windows of crystal and gold. Her weathered hands gripped the stone balustrade with white-knuckled intensity, though her face betrayed nothing of the storm raging in her heart.
She had always known this day would come, the day when Roboute's true origins would be revealed. A child of her heart if not her blood, she had raised him from infancy, watching him grow from extraordinary baby to transcendent leader. But she had never fooled herself into believing that Macragge's soil alone could have produced such a marvel.
The shuttle's descent was a thing of beauty and terror, its hull gleaming like a fallen star as it pierced Macragge's atmosphere. The crowds that had gathered in the great plaza fell silent as one, their breath caught in collective anticipation. When the craft touched down with impossible grace, even the bravest souls took an involuntary step backward.
The exit ramp descended with hydraulic precision, and from within emerged a figure that needed no introduction. Roboute Guilliman stepped into the light of his homeworld's sun, his massive frame somehow both familiar and alien after his time among the stars. The crowd's collective exhale seemed to release years of pent-up worry and fear.
Security forces rushed forward, their ceremonial weapons more symbol than actual threat, but Guilliman waved them back with gentle authority. His eyes sought out one figure among the crowd, finding her standing where he knew she would be, dignity incarnate despite the tears threatening to spill from her ancient eyes.
"Forgive me, Mother," he said, dropping to one knee so that their eyes could meet on something approaching equal terms. His massive hand enveloped both of hers, warm and reassuring and achingly familiar. "I should have sent word, but events moved too quickly for proper protocols."
Tarasha Euten's composure finally cracked, just slightly, at the gentleness in his voice. This was still her boy, despite the cosmic forces that swirled around him like storm clouds. "You're safe," she whispered, the words carrying more weight than any formal welcome. "That's all that matters."
But even as they shared this moment of reunion, Guilliman's enhanced hearing picked up the worried murmurs of his advisors, the crackle of military communications, the subtle signs of a world preparing for siege. He forced himself to stand, to address the crowd with the authority they needed to see.
"Citizens of Macragge!" his voice boomed across the plaza, enhanced by vox-amplifiers built into his very bones. "The fleet above us brings no threat to our world. Instead, they carry the most honored guests our realm has ever received, my father and brothers, come to see the world that shaped me!"
The reaction was immediate and electric. Gasps of astonishment rippled through the crowd like waves on a disturbed pond. Tarasha Euten's eyes widened, her mind racing to process the implications. She had suspected, had prepared herself for this possibility, but the reality was overwhelming.
"Your father?" she breathed, and in those two words lay years of patient love and careful nurturing, the pride of a woman who had shaped a demigod while never losing sight of the child he had once been.
Guilliman's smile was radiant, the expression transforming his stern features into something approaching boyish enthusiasm. "And brothers, Mother. I am not alone in this universe, I have a family that spans the stars themselves."
The transformation that came over Tarasha Euten was remarkable to witness. Years seemed to fall away from her weathered features as purpose replaced uncertainty. This was no longer a crisis to be managed but an opportunity to demonstrate Macragge's finest qualities. Her voice, when she spoke, carried the iron authority that had helped guide a world.
"Then we shall show them such hospitality as will be remembered for ten thousand years," she declared, her words carrying to every corner of the plaza. "Let every citizen of Macragge contribute to this welcome, let our guests see the finest we have to offer!"
What followed was a mobilization that would have impressed even the most seasoned campaign strategist. The machinery of Macragge's government shifted into high gear, every department and agency contributing to what would become known as the Welcome of Ages. Artisans were commissioned for decorations, chefs for banquets, musicians for entertainment that would span days rather than hours.
Thirteen Terran hours passed in a blur of preparation and anticipation. When the golden shuttle finally descended from the sky, bearing the Emperor of Mankind and his gene-sons, it found a world transformed. Macragge had arrayed itself in its finest regalia, every street swept clean, every banner flying proud and bright.
The Emperor's landing craft was a marvel of craftsmanship, its golden hull inscribed with the double-headed aquila that would one day become the symbol of human unity throughout the galaxy. As it settled onto the prepared landing pad, the very air seemed to thrum with potential energy, as though reality itself bent subtly around the craft's divine passenger.
The crowd that had gathered to witness this historic moment numbered in the hundreds of thousands, representatives from every corner of Macragge's domain come to witness the impossible made manifest. Silence fell as the craft's exit ramp lowered with ceremonial slowness, each second stretching toward eternity.
The first to emerge were the Custodian Guard, their auramite armor blazing like captured suns in Macragge's light. They moved with inhuman precision, each step calculated to inspire awe and reverence. Their guardian spears caught the light and threw it back in dazzling displays, while their faces remained hidden behind masks of gold and ceramic that revealed nothing of the men within.
They formed perfect ranks along the prepared pathway, their movements synchronized to the microsecond. As one, they knelt and raised their voices in a cry that shook the very foundations of the plaza: "Hail our Lord, the Emperor of Mankind!"
And then, as though summoned by their words, He appeared.