The Custodian Guards stood like golden statues given life, their magnificent halberds catching the dying light of Macragge's twin suns. As one, these ultimate warriors, beings crafted from the Emperor's own genetic mastery, bent their knees in reverence, their voices rising in harmonious proclamation that echoed across the vast ceremonial plaza:
"Hail, our Master, the Emperor of Mankind!"
'Emperor.' The word carried weight beyond mortal comprehension, a title that had shaped the destiny of countless worlds across the galaxy's spiral arms. In this age of darkness, when xenos predators stalked between the stars and humanity cowered in isolated pockets of civilization, that name alone could ignite hope in the hearts of billions.
The assembled masses of Macragge pressed forward against the cordon of guards, their faces upturned with desperate yearning. Who was this figure that commanded the loyalty of beings who seemed stepped from the pages of ancient myth? What manner of man could unite a fractured species under a single banner and dare to call himself Emperor in an age when such dreams seemed impossible?
Citizens of every station crowded the ceremonial grounds, noble-born senators in their finest robes of azure and gold, battle-scarred veterans bearing the scars of frontier wars, common laborers still bearing the honest dirt of their trades. All stood united in breathless anticipation, their varied eyes fixed upon the descending craft with an intensity that bordered on religious fervor.
The landing vessel's belly iris dilated, and pure radiance spilled forth, not merely light, but something far more profound. It was illumination that seemed to emanate from the very soul of creation itself, golden and warm and utterly without shadow. Where that radiance touched, it banished more than mere darkness; it drove away despair, uncertainty, and the creeping doubt that had plagued humanity since the fall of their ancient federation.
The assembled multitude fell to their knees as if moved by a single will, and silence descended like a benediction. Even the wind seemed to still in reverence.
The people of Macragge knelt not merely before power, but before the living embodiment of their world's founding principles, reason married to strength, wisdom tempered by justice. Here was the actualization of every philosophical ideal their civilization had strived toward for generations.
He emerged from that cascade of golden light like a figure from humanity's most ancient legends. The Emperor stood revealed in all His majesty, and mortal minds struggled to process the reality of His presence. Light seemed to cling to His form, not illuminating Him so much as radiating from within His very being.
In His left hand, He held a sword of impossible craftsmanship, its blade wreathed in coruscating energy fields. Yet it pointed downward toward the marble stones, a gesture that spoke of power constrained by wisdom, of strength that served rather than dominated. His right hand bore aloft scales of pure aurum, their balance perfect and unwavering, a symbol that justice, not mere force, would be the foundation of His rule.
The human tide that had pressed forward now fell back like water before a dam, each soul present overwhelmed by the sheer presence of the Master of Mankind. In their minds, an indelible impression was carved, not by psychic manipulation, but by the simple truth of witnessing perfection made manifest.
"The Emperor!" The whisper began with a single voice, tremulous with awe.
"The Emperor!" More voices joined, until the entire plaza rang with the joyous acclamation.
"THE EMPEROR!" The cry became a thunderous roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of Magna Macragge Civitas.
Those blessed few whose eyes met His wept tears of pure joy, overwhelmed by a love so profound it transcended mortal understanding. To be acknowledged by that gaze was to feel, for one perfect moment, that every struggle, every hardship, every small act of courage in their lives had meaning within some vast and benevolent design.
The Emperor stood nearly three meters in height, His frame perfectly proportioned despite its superhuman scale. Ancient wisdom looked out from eyes that had witnessed the rise and fall of civilizations, while His face bore the stamp of nobility so pure it seemed carved from the dreams of artists. Upon His brow rested a circlet of golden laurel leaves, each one wrought with such skill that they seemed to flutter in an unfelt breeze.
His robes were spun from threads of pure gold, yet they moved like silk, catching and reflecting the light in patterns that seemed to shift and flow with hidden meaning. Upon His feet, bare, as if to better feel the ground of this world He had come to claim, the marks of old wounds could be glimpsed, reminders that even gods could bleed in service to their people.
The Emperor stepped onto the azure carpet that had been laid for His approach, but then He paused. His perfect features showed no impatience, no irritation at the delay. He simply waited, and in that waiting demonstrated a patience that spoke of eons spent in careful planning.
What did He await? The crowd followed His gaze skyward, and their question was answered as a second vessel descended through Macragge's crystalline atmosphere.
This craft was different, where the first had been functional majesty, this was artistry made manifest. Its hull bore the flowing script of ancient Terra, inlaid with precious metals that caught the light in coruscating patterns. Upon its flanks, the symbols of laurel wreath and gladius spoke of victories won through honor and strength united.
Two distinct formations of warriors disembarked in perfect synchronization, their contrasting appearances creating a striking tableau of unity in diversity.
The first contingent wore armor of pearl-white ceramite, each suit a masterwork of both protection and artistry. Golden traceries followed the flowing lines of their plate, telling wordless stories of campaigns fought in distant stars. Their banner bearers held aloft standards of azure silk, upon which the golden gladius and laurel wreath of Ultramar stood proudly against the Macragge sky.
These warriors moved with parade-ground precision, every step measured, every gesture calculated for maximum ceremonial impact. Their helmed heads were held high with justifiable pride, for they were the chosen guardians of one of the Emperor's own sons.
The second formation presented a stark contrast, warriors clad in midnight-black plate, their armor adorned with crimson details that spoke of blood spilled in righteous cause. They moved with a different cadence, less parade-ground perfect but no less disciplined. Their bearing spoke of veterans who had seen the galaxy's darkest corners and emerged unbroken.
Their standard bearer carried a banner of deep obsidian, upon which was worked a symbol that seemed to shift and change as the eye followed its lines. It was neither rune nor letter, but something that seemed to encompass meanings too vast for simple language, duty, sacrifice, protection, and a dozen other concepts that defined what it meant to serve the Emperor's vision.
Though different in their presentation, it was clear that both formations held equal honor, equal standing in the complex hierarchy of the Imperium. They were two facets of the same weapon, each honed for different purposes but equally cherished by their master.
At their approach, the golden Custodian Guards rose as one, their movements fluid despite their massive frames. The procession began its advance, making way for the honor guard that followed in their wake.
Such a display moved even Lady Euten, whose long experience in the courts of Macragge had inured her to most ceremonial excess. Her eyes widened as she took in the sheer scope of the pageantry, the casual display of resources that could equip armies.
"Guilliman," she murmured to her adopted son, "your father and brothers are truly remarkable beings."
Robert Guilliman straightened unconsciously, pride evident in every line of his superhuman frame. "They are, aren't they?" he replied, his voice carrying a note of awe despite his attempts at composure. "They are warrior-kings, certainly, but beneath that they remain men, men capable of compassion and wisdom."
As the honor guard assumed their positions, two towering figures emerged from the second craft's illuminated portal. Even among the assembled giants, these two commanded attention through sheer presence alone.
The first wore ceremonial armor of pristine white, every surface etched with the record of victories won in his master's name. The engravings were not mere decoration but a living history, each battle honor earned through blood and sacrifice, each campaign a chapter in the ongoing saga of the Great Crusade. Though the specific details of those conflicts might be lost to mortal understanding, every character, every symbol, spoke of glory earned through service to humanity's destiny.
This figure carried himself with the bearing of a god of war descended from ancient myth. His features were noble beyond mortal standards, yet touched with a humanity that made his divine nature approachable rather than terrifying. He moved with fluid grace despite his massive frame, each step measured and precise.
His companion presented a startling contrast, where the first was alabaster perfection, this second figure was carved from midnight itself. His skin was dark as the void between stars, and his eyes held a crimson gleam that might have been terrifying in any other context. Yet something in his bearing, some fundamental gentleness in his posture, transformed the potentially fearsome into the merely striking.
This dark giant wore robes of deep forest green that left his arms bare, revealing musculature that spoke of both tremendous power and careful restraint. Most remarkably, his face bore an expression of genuine warmth, a smile that promised protection and understanding to any who might seek his aid.
Both figures wore circlets of laurel wrought in living gold, marking them clearly as beings of tremendous import within the Imperial hierarchy. Their appearance sent a ripple of recognition through the crowd, here were the Emperor's own sons, the legendary Primarchs spoken of in whispered tales from distant worlds.
The people of Macragge found themselves unconsciously comparing these two titans to their own beloved Roboute Guilliman, and the similarities were unmistakable. Whatever process had created these beings had clearly drawn from the same divine template, yet each bore the unique marks of their individual nature and experience.
The two Primarchs fell into step behind their father, their movements synchronized as if they had drilled together for centuries. They approached Guilliman's position amid a crescendo of cheers and applause that seemed to shake the very air.
Blazkowicz maintained his ceremonial composure despite his personal distaste for such formal occasions. He understood the necessity, every gesture, every precisely choreographed moment served purposes that extended far beyond mere pageantry.
The words of Life Forger Prima echoed in his mind: 'All rituals in the material universe contain power, from the most elaborate ceremony to the smallest gesture of respect.' Order itself possessed strength, serving as a bulwark against the chaotic energies that sought to corrupt reality from beyond the veil.
Even the Ruinous Powers, those entities of pure chaos that dwelt in the Warp's roiling depths, understood this truth. Their own dark ceremonies were attempts to impose their will upon reality, to create structure from madness. In this great cosmic balance between order and entropy, every solemn moment, every respectful gesture, added weight to the side of sanity and stability.
So Blazkowicz endured the pomp and circumstance, knowing that this ceremony served to strengthen the fabric of the Imperium.
The extraordinary procession continued across the azure carpet, Blazkowicz and Vulkan flanking their father as they bore the trailing hem of His golden robes. Sacred choirs hidden throughout the plaza began their ethereal chanting, voices rising in harmonies that seemed to touch something deeper than mere hearing.
Flower petals fell like gentle rain from concealed dispensers, their fragrance mixing with carefully prepared incense to create an atmosphere of transcendent beauty. Imperial chroniclers and advisors took their positions at the ceremony's periphery, their recording devices and memory implants capturing every moment of this historic reunion.
Another son found. Another piece of the Great Crusade's vast puzzle falling into place.
At the carpet's terminus, Roboute Guilliman knelt upon one knee, his massive frame somehow managing to convey both strength and humility in that single gesture. Around him, the highest-ranking officials of Macragge's government followed suit, creating a tableau of submission that spoke to the magnitude of this moment.
Guilliman kept his gaze fixed downward, but his superhuman senses tracked every detail of his father's approach. When those bare feet, feet that had walked upon Holy Terra itself, came to rest before him, his twin hearts hammered against his ribs like captive thunder.
His enhanced physiology betrayed him as a tremor ran through his frame. After so many years of wondering, of hoping, of fearing that he might somehow prove unworthy of his heritage, the moment of judgment had finally arrived.
The Emperor's expression remained serene, showing neither joy nor disappointment as He gazed down upon His kneeling son. With deliberate grace, He raised one perfect hand, palm upward in a gesture of benediction.
Two Custodian Guards stepped forward in perfect synchronization. The first knelt and presented an ancient wooden box, its surface worn smooth by countless handling yet somehow radiating an aura of tremendous antiquity and importance. The second opened the container with reverent care, revealing the laurel wreath nestled within upon a bed of midnight-blue velvet.
As the guard lifted the circlet and placed it in his master's waiting palm, those with keen enough eyesight noticed the Emperor's right hand bore an old burn scar, a mark left by grasping something that had burned with unimaginable heat. Even gods, it seemed, bore the scars of their sacrifices.
The Emperor did not immediately lower the wreath. Instead, He held it suspended above Guilliman's bowed head, and when He spoke, His voice carried the weight of absolute authority tempered by infinite compassion:
"Roboute Guilliman."
The name rang across the plaza like a bell, each syllable perfectly enunciated, carrying depths of meaning that mortal language could barely contain.
"Guilliman, my son. Blood of my blood, heir to my vision for humanity's future. In the name of the Emperor of Mankind, I grant unto you the supreme glory of acknowledged sonship, the power to conquer in humanity's name, and the authority to bring law and order to the distant stars."
With those words, He lowered the laurel circlet with infinite care, letting it settle upon Guilliman's golden hair like a crown crafted in the halls of the gods themselves.
The crowd's response was instantaneous and overwhelming, cheers erupted from ten thousand throats as the people of Macragge witnessed the formal recognition of their beloved leader as the Emperor's own progeny. At last, all of Guilliman's impossible achievements, his superhuman capabilities, his visionary leadership, made perfect sense.
Of course he had accomplished such wonders, he was the son of the Master of Mankind Himself.
Blazkowicz observed the crowd's reaction with mixed feelings. In their joy, he detected a subtle but profound shift in perception. Where once Guilliman's achievements had seemed miraculous precisely because they appeared to spring from purely mortal determination, now they would forever be colored by expectations of divine heritage.
'Humans always seek explanations,' he mused, 'even when the mystery was more beautiful than the answer.'
No longer would Guilliman's victories seem quite so inspiring to the common citizen. Now there would always be the whispered addendum: "But of course, he is the Emperor's son. What else could we expect?"
Yet Blazkowicz harbored no such diminished opinion of his brother. Having observed Guilliman closely during their journey, he had seen qualities that had nothing to do with genetic legacy and everything to do with personal choice.
Each of the Primarchs had been gifted with tremendous potential, but potential alone meant nothing without the will to fulfill it. Had Leman Russ or any of their other brothers found themselves ruling Macragge and the broader Ultramar region, the result would have been entirely different, perhaps equally impressive, but shaped by completely different virtues and flaws.
Blazkowicz had witnessed Guilliman's famous temper during a brief confrontation aboard his ship, seen anger blaze in those blue eyes like stellar fire, burning with intensity that could have consumed worlds. Yet he had also seen his brother master that rage through pure force of will, channeling it into productive purpose through the application of reason and philosophical discipline.
There was a telling moment that had occurred during their approach to Macragge. As their vessel translated from Warp to realspace, Blazkowicz's enhanced vision had caught sight of the banners hanging throughout Magna Macragge Civitas. Upon the azure backgrounds, the white "Ω" symbol had stood out with particular clarity, the last letter of an ancient alphabet, representing endings, completion, and the final word.
It was, he reflected, a perfect symbol for Guilliman's nature. Where other Primarchs might begin grand projects and trust others to complete them, Guilliman possessed the patience and attention to detail necessary to see things through to their proper conclusion.
As Guilliman rose to his full imposing height, his usually stern features transformed by an expression of pure joy, the transformation was visible to all present. This was no longer merely the Lord of Macragge, but a son reunited with his father after eons of separation.
Standing tall, Guilliman gestured toward his two brothers, his voice carrying clearly across the plaza as he addressed his people:
"These are my brothers in blood and bond, "
He raised Blazkowicz's arm high, presenting him to the assembled multitude.
"Blazkowicz Novick, Warrior King, Twenty-first Son of the Emperor!"
The crowd roared their approval, the name echoing from a thousand throats.
Then Guilliman lifted Vulkan's arm with equal pride:
"Vulkan, the Lord of Drakes, Eighteenth Son of the Emperor!"
Again the masses responded, their cheers washing over the ceremonial ground like a tide of pure human joy.
These were not merely names being announced, but the introduction of demigods who would help shepherd humanity toward its destined greatness among the stars.
---
As the grand ceremony concluded and the crowds began to disperse in response to gentle but firm direction from the Custodian Guards, Guilliman led the Imperial delegation toward the inner sanctums of his palace for the more practical matters that awaited.
Today marked not only Guilliman's formal recognition as a Primarch, but also the beginning of Macragge's integration into the expanding Imperium of Man. Such momentous changes required careful negotiation and precise planning.
The council chamber had been prepared with meticulous attention to protocol. The great hall's vaulted ceiling bore murals depicting Macragge's history from its founding to the present day, while banners representing both local tradition and Imperial authority hung in careful balance along the walls.
Guilliman took his place at the left side of the great table, surrounded by Macragge's most skilled diplomats and administrators, individuals who had spent their careers mastering the intricate dance of interstellar politics and trade negotiations.
Vulkan assumed the right side, accompanied by the Emperor's personal representatives, beings whose experience spanned dozens of successful planetary integration campaigns. They carried with them not only the authority to negotiate on behalf of the Imperium, but also the wisdom gained from countless similar situations across the galaxy.
The Emperor and Blazkowicz occupied the head of the table, their presence serving as witness and final authority over the proceedings. While the detailed negotiations would be conducted by their respective subordinates, their oversight ensured that the broader strategic vision would be maintained throughout the process.
The terms offered to Macragge were generous beyond the norm, reflecting both the Emperor's obvious affection for His newly found son and the strategic importance of Ultramar's position within the galactic spiral. The creation of the "Great Ultramar Sector" with subsidiary regions would provide Guilliman with unprecedented autonomy for a planetary governor.
More significantly, Guilliman would be granted command of the XIII Legion, the Ultramarines, allowing him to participate directly in the Great Crusade's ongoing expansion. Worlds brought into compliance by his forces would be incorporated into Ultramar's growing domain, creating a cycle of expansion and consolidation that could eventually encompass vast regions of the galaxy's eastern reaches.
The tax exemptions offered were particularly notable, Macragge would be excused from the tithe obligations that bound most Imperial worlds, a recognition of the enormous military and logistical contributions Ultramar would be expected to provide.
In exchange for these remarkable privileges, Macragge accepted responsibility for pacifying and defending the entirety of the Ultima Segmentum's eastern regions. This vast territory contained countless star systems, many of which harbored xenos threats that had proven troublesome for the stretched resources of the main Crusade fleets.
The region's distance from Terra made direct Imperial oversight impractical, requiring a local authority with both the power and reliability to act independently when circumstances demanded. With a Primarch's loyalty guaranteed by bonds deeper than politics, Ultramar represented the perfect solution to a complex strategic problem.
Guilliman's acceptance of these responsibilities demonstrated the Emperor's complete confidence in His son's capabilities, a trust that would prove instrumental in humanity's expansion across the stars.
As the broad framework was established, the negotiations settled into the complex details that would define the relationship between Ultramar and the greater Imperium for generations to come. Officials from both sides engaged in the sophisticated verbal sparring that characterizes high-level diplomacy, each seeking to maximize their side's advantages while maintaining the spirit of cooperation that made the entire arrangement possible.
---
"You seem uncomfortable with political theater."
The observation came in a gentle, cultured voice that carried the subtle musical accent of Macragge's nobility. Lady Euten approached across the palace gardens, her movements graceful despite her mortal limitations.
Blazkowicz had indeed withdrawn from the council chamber, finding himself increasingly irritated by the elaborate dance of negotiation taking place within. He sat beneath the spreading branches of an ancient Macragge olive tree, its silvered leaves providing dappled shade from the afternoon sun.
"Political maneuvering," he replied as Euten gracefully arranged tea service on the stone table between them, "often resembles scavengers fighting over carrion, driven more by instinct than intelligence."
He watched her pour the clear, aromatic tea with practiced ease before continuing: "The endless cycles of demand and counter-demand, the careful probing for weakness and advantage, it becomes tedious when observed from outside the immediate sphere of interest."
"Of course," he added quickly, noting her slightly startled expression, "I intend no insult to necessary work. When the outcomes don't directly affect one's own responsibilities, there's little value in deep involvement."
Lady Euten paused in her pouring, momentarily distracted by the Primarch's unexpected directness. Most of the superhuman beings she had encountered spoke in carefully measured phrases that revealed little of their actual thoughts.
"Lady," Blazkowicz observed quietly, "your cup is about to overflow."
"Oh! Forgive me," she said, quickly steadying the teapot. "Your candor is... refreshing, though perhaps unusual for one of your station."
As she settled into the chair across from him, Euten's expression grew more serious. This was, after all, why she had sought out this particular son of the Emperor.
"What is your assessment of Roboute?" she asked, her tone carefully neutral despite the obvious importance of the question to her.
She had done her research. This being before her was the twenty-first Primarch, the youngest of the Emperor's genetic progeny, yet somehow he had achieved a position of extraordinary influence within the Imperium's hierarchy. His opinion of Guilliman could significantly impact her adopted son's future standing among his brothers.
Blazkowicz considered the question carefully, noting the subtle tension in the woman's posture, the barely concealed maternal anxiety behind her diplomatic composure. He had seen that expression before, in the eyes of another queen who had loved him as a son.
For a moment, Queen Elise's features seemed to overlay Lady Euten's, and a familiar pang of loss touched his hearts.
"Unremarkable," he said finally, his tone matter-of-fact.
The word hung in the air between them like a judgment rendered.
For a Primarch, beings created to be the pinnacles of human potential, such an assessment might seem damning. Yet Blazkowicz meant it quite literally.
Among his brothers, Guilliman lacked certain qualities that made others immediately memorable. Leman Russ possessed an almost feral charisma that could dominate any room he entered. Horus radiated personal magnetism that drew followers like moths to flame. Fulgrim's artistic perfection made him impossible to ignore.
Each Primarch embodied specific aspects of their father's nature, often to extremes that made them unforgettable. Compared to such vivid personalities, Guilliman seemed almost mundane.
He was methodical rather than inspirational, preferring careful planning to dramatic gestures. In social situations, his tendency to offer detailed advice and elaborate solutions often came across as lecturing, even when well-intentioned.
During their voyage aboard the Bucephalus, even the patient Vulkan had occasionally shown signs of irritation with Guilliman's focus on minute details and procedural correctness.
"Unremarkable?" Lady Euten's relief was immediately apparent in her voice and posture. The tension left her shoulders as she settled back in her chair. "Then I am greatly reassured."
She poured fresh tea for both of them, her movements now relaxed and natural.
"You find that assessment satisfactory?" Blazkowicz asked, genuinely curious. "It's hardly exceptional praise."
"For anyone else, perhaps," Euten replied, "but for Guilliman, it represents the best possible outcome."
She gestured toward the distant spires of the capital, where the formal negotiations continued.
"Consider what the Emperor has granted him, autonomous rule over an entire segmentum, command of a Legion, exemption from Imperial tithes. Such privileges could easily breed resentment among his brothers."
"If Guilliman appeared overly ambitious or demonstrated excessive charisma, he would immediately become a target for suspicion and rivalry. Being 'unremarkable' provides him with protective camouflage."
"His brothers may find him somewhat dull, but they won't see him as a threat to their own positions or ambitions."
Blazkowicz nodded approvingly. The woman's political instincts were sound, her understanding of power dynamics sophisticated despite her mortal limitations.
"That analysis has merit," he agreed, "though perhaps incomplete."
He leaned forward slightly, his expression growing more serious.
"You assume jealousy and suspicion arise primarily from perceived threats to position or authority. Among Primarchs, however, the dynamics can be more complex."
"In the eyes of the populace we are the emperor's sons, created to fulfill specific roles within his grand design. Whether we are envied, admired, scorned, or praised matters less than whether we serve his will effectively."
"These are our burdens and our purposes, the sources of both our tremendous power and our fundamental constraints."
"But Guilliman possesses something unique among us." He extended one finger toward Euten, emphasizing his point. "Perhaps the greatest source of future resentment will stem directly from you."
"From me?" Euten asked, genuinely perplexed. "How could I possibly affect relationships between demigods?"
"You are a mother," Blazkowicz stated simply. "A mother who loves my brother genuinely and completely."
During their voyage, Guilliman had mentioned Euten frequently, his voice always carrying warmth and affection when he spoke of her. These references had invariably caused Vulkan to change the subject, his discomfort obvious to anyone paying attention.
That particular expression of longing and loss was one Blazkowicz had learned to recognize among his brothers, and one that never failed to move him to both pity and dark amusement.
"We Primarchs were scattered across the galaxy by forces beyond our control," he explained gently. "Some worlds proved more fortunate than others in their reception of their unexpected foundlings."
He allowed the implications to settle before continuing.
"Many of my brothers may have landed on worlds torn by war, ruled by tyrants, or dominated by hostile alien species. Some could be raised as weapons, others as gladiators, still others as tools for political ambition."
"Your son was blessed with parents who loved him for himself rather than for what he could provide them."
Lady Euten's expression grew thoughtful as understanding dawned.
"You're saying that in gaining a family, Guilliman received something his brothers were denied?"
"The Emperor created our bodies to be virtually indestructible, our minds to be brilliant beyond mortal comprehension, our forms to inspire awe and loyalty," Blazkowicz confirmed. "But the emotional voids within us, those wounds of the heart, remain largely unfilled."
"Guilliman's apparent 'ordinariness' springs in part from the security and love he received from his adoptive parents. It allowed him to develop empathy and genuine care for others, rather than viewing mortals merely as tools or resources."
"That emotional grounding makes him more effective as a ruler and commander, but it also marks him as different from his brothers in ways they may not fully understand."
Lady Euten absorbed this revelation in silence, her expression growing troubled as she contemplated the implications.
"And what of you?" she asked softly. "What was your childhood like, that you understand these dynamics so clearly?"
Blazkowicz's hand stopped mid-motion as he reached for his tea cup. His expression grew distant, touched by shadows of memory.
Slowly, he stood, his massive frame casting Lady Euten in shadow as the afternoon sun slanted through the garden.
For a moment, genuine unease flickered across her features as she looked up at the towering figure above her.
"She was very gentle," the Primarch said finally, his voice carrying notes of loss and longing that spoke of wounds that might never fully heal. "I can only recall that gentleness now, everything else has been lost to time and necessity."
The words hung in the garden air like an unfinished prayer, speaking to depths of sorrow that mortal hearts could barely comprehend. In that moment, Lady Euten glimpsed something of the true cost of being a Primarch, the price of power that could shake worlds but could never fully heal the wounds of a lost childhood.
The Emperor's sons might be gods among mortals, but in their hearts they remained, in some small way, the lost children they had always been.