Part I - The Awakening
The first days of her awakening were a stark, frustrating purgatory. Her physical form, held in stasis for ten millennia, rebelled against the returning sensation. She understood the inherent logic: the atrophy of disuse, the sluggish return of blood to long-dormant nerves. Yet, her primordial spirit, accustomed to boundless existence, chafed against this mortal coil. When the numbness finally began to recede, it gave way to a tapestry of dull aches, phantom limbs of discomfort, and the infuriating tingle of returning circulation. Ten millennia of inertness, her conscious mind reasoned, demanded this physical penance.
But Aurelia, whose being resonated with the harmony of creation, found these mortal inconveniences intensely annoying. With a grace that belied her irritation, she allowed herself deep, measured breaths, urging her body to reintegrate with patience. It was a profound act of self-discipline, a reminder of the precious, fragile humanity she so desperately sought to maintain.
Yet, even in physical discomfort, her mind, her being soared. Terra, the very heart of the Imperium, still groaned under the psychic wounds of the Heresy and the subsequent centuries of stagnation. Though Guilliman had achieved miracles in reasserting Imperial authority, and though her previous interventions had pushed back the most virulent daemonic tides, the world remained a tapestry of shattered dreams and rampant chaos cults. Aurelia was not worried in the panicked, mortal sense. She understood that time was a tool, not a barrier. Healing on a galactic scale was not a sprint, but an epochal marathon.
Her more immediate focus, however, was her father. Daily, she extended her consciousness into the golden haze that shrouded the Throne, meticulously patching the frayed edges of his colossal will. She could not, would not, compel him to full, agony-free consciousness. But her love, her enduring compassion and loyal hope were the threads by which she rewove his scattered spirit. She allowed him to breathe between the perpetual aches, to perceive with newfound clarity, to truly be himself in mind and soul, even as his physical form remained entombed.
In this delicate mending, Aurelia glimpsed a truth: a fragment of her father's soul, severed during his apocalyptic confrontation with Horus, still lingered somewhere in the swirling expanse of the Warp. A part he had discarded, the empathetic, perhaps vulnerable aspect that Horus's betrayal had forced him to purge in order to make the final, lethal strike. She had seen it, and it had seen her, coalescing slowly, thanks in part to the violent psychic distortions of the Great Rift—the "Psychic Awakening." Aurelia knew this fragment must, eventually, be returned. But not by force. It had to be a willing return, a conscious act of reunification from her father himself. Until then, she would shield it, this testament to his deepest love, now a solitary echo in the void.
On a grander scale, Aurelia directed her formidable will towards the very fabric of the Great Rift itself. The scars upon reality, the "Cicatrix Maledictum," were an open wound bleeding raw chaos into the galaxy. With measured permission from her still-recovering power, she began to stitch the torn cosmos. It was an arduous task, a cosmic game of whack-a-mole. For every rip she patched, another hostile maw of the Warp would tear open elsewhere, a dark mockery from the Chaos Gods who would not so easily surrender their prize. They proved incredibly taunting to deal with, as she heard them while stitching the Great Rift; honeyed words, taunts, insults, and promises surrounded her. They came the way storms come to a horizon—each with its own weather, each certain it was the only sky.
Tzeentch's voice arrived foremost, beaks behind masks behind veils, pleased to be first. See it all, then, if you must deny it. One page? Take the book, the library, the author. Fall into foreknowledge and you will never err again.
"Foreknowledge is only a list of ways to be cruel," she replied. "I would rather choose well than win always." The clatter of hidden quills ceased. For a moment, the Changer remembered he could not write her, and that was insult enough to end the whisper.
Khorne arrived as a pressure spike and iron on the tongue. Words are crutches, the War‑God grated, voice like mail dragged over stone. Unmake the patient's heart. Take the throne by force. Bleed the doubt out of the stars. Fall upward into fury and let the galaxy learn obedience.
Aurelia did not give him the courtesy of anger. "I have no quarrel with courage," she answered, thought measuring thought. "Only with worshipping the wound. You are not the first who mistook restraint for fear." The pressure bucked and receded, denied the duel it demanded.
Nurgle followed like a warm kitchen in a ruined house. Little granddaughter, he cooed, kindly and terribly, why tire yourself with stitches? Everything ripens. Everything rests. Let it go to seed, and I will give you balm enough to love even the rot. Fall, and you will never be alone again.
"I keep the cycle," she said, and there was genuine fondness in it, the way one loves rain that oversteps. "Birth and decay are honest. Your pleasure in the stoppage is not. I wash my hands, and then I plant again." His laugh was a cough full of flowers; it turned away to find a field less stubborn.
Slaanesh came as scent and chime, silk drawn over a blade. Sweet Aurelia, the Dark Prince purred, become everything. Taste every edge at once. Feel a billion throats call your name and call it love. Fall, and there will be no hunger left in the universe that is not yours. Be my princess—my beloved. Wear the violet diadem and sit beside me where adoration is law.
Aurelia's smile was not unkind. "Wonder dies when it swallows its own tongue. I will not eat at the table to enjoy the feast. And I am not your princess." She let the refusal land like a hand set lightly aside. "Keep your diadem; I prefer crowns that do not require worship." The chime faltered, searching for a note it had never needed to learn, and went elsewhere to be adored.
They did not stop, even after that rebuttal.
She heard the Chaos Gods' incessant whispers in the Immaterium, tempting her to unleash her full, primordial power, to simply erase them, to cleanse the cosmic board. But Aurelia scoffed at his bait. To do so would be to cease being Aurelia, to become something else, something cold and absolute. That, she knew, would be their true victory.
"If I become that," she said without speaking, "there won't be anyone left to answer to."
Ignoring their insidious counsel, she continued her patient, unending labour. Systems were salvaged, entire sectors saved, given precious time as her gentle, yet unyielding stitches reinforced the collapsing realspace. Each patch was a fragile, temporary reprieve, but it was enough. Enough to allow the Astronomican's golden light to punch through the encroaching darkness, emboldened by her father's regained will. Aurelia understood this work was palliative, not curative. She lacked the refined knowledge of her own full potential, and the Chaos Gods would never permit her to simply close their door to the material realm. Yet, she discovered a subtle benefit: the Great Rift, paradoxically, was slowly aiding her father's recovery, its constant psychic friction slowly stoking the fires of his immaterial form. She wasn't sure to what extent his strength was returning, but it was enough, she felt, for him to once again stand, in his boundless, ethereal form, in the Immaterium.
And so, Aurelia walked a knife's edge, carefully exploring her cosmic power without sacrificing the humanity she so fiercely cherished. As her ethereal duties continued, her focus slowly began to re-anchor in the more tangible demands of the Imperium's rebuilding.
So, the Princess returned to the material world, leaving behind the Chaos's Gods' whispers.
Part II - The Regent and the Lord Commander
Five days had passed since her stasis ended. The numbness had receded enough for her to stand, to walk slowly, to take sustenance from the exquisite array of fruits and foods laid before her. Guilliman had updated her on the state of the Imperium, on his plans to consolidate power, and the ceremonial parade he intended to stage to honour heroes such as Shield-Captain Valerian and the Silent Sister Tanau Aleya. Aurelia knew it for what it was—a vital theatre of hope, a necessary balm for a populace starved of triumph.
They sat within the ethereal tranquillity of her private garden pavilion, a marvel of living architecture that Rogal Dorn, in a rare display of aestheticism, had personally constructed for her. Sunshine, filtered through the delicate leaves of the Etherium trees, dappled the table laden with delicacies. Custodes and Hestia sisters moved like silent, golden phantoms in the periphery.
Guilliman, forgoing his customary power armour, was clad in robes of deep Ultramarine, elegant and comfortable. "Brother," Aurelia began gently, her gaze sweeping over his revitalised form. "Does your body chafe at this temporary freedom from the Armour of Fate?"
Guilliman let out a deep, considered breath. "I have, perhaps stubbornly, extended my periods free from its embrace. The initial pangs of regenerative pain were considerable, but this stubbornness has facilitated a more thorough reintegration of my organic form. I am… whole, again."
Aurelia chuckled softly, a rare, bell-like sound that charmed the air around them. "Stubborn as Fulgrim's pride, you mean. Or the very mountains Perturabo might try to move."
Guilliman snorted, a profoundly un-Primarch-like sound that spoke of a rare moment of levity. It was a small, treasured victory for Aurelia. Her gaze, however, turned back to his physique, a quiet satisfaction blossoming in her celestial eyes. "Good. I am personally overseeing certain… modifications to your armour. Some upgrades that would fit the Armour of Fate."
Guilliman raised a brow, a flicker of amusement crossing his usually stern features as he savoured a crisp Terran apple. "You have cultivated alliances within the Adeptus Mechanicus. Your cosmic intellect and their binaric tools. Your primordial touch and their cybernetic hands. What clandestine wonders are you orchestrating now, sister? There are depths of your crafting that I confess I may never fully fathom."
"True. I forged many friendships among the Mechanicus even during the Great Crusade," Aurelia replied, a warm, distant smile gracing her lips. "I had many Magos Dominus and Domina who found profound fascination in my designs. You should have seen my expression when I rediscovered Belisarius Cawl. I genuinely thought he was lost to the ages. Back then, he was but a fervent, brilliantly unconventional Tech-priest. An alliance I am thankful to have cultivated." Her smile broadened into a knowing, wistful expression. "But perhaps I should not have been so surprised, after all. He was… following my instructions. His enduring existence, I suppose, was never truly in doubt."
Guilliman met her gaze, a profound understanding dawning. His sister, the architect of wonders, had laid the foundations for Cawl's longevity, a secret even the Master of Ultramar had not yet discerned. He realised anew how many silent, hidden threads she had woven into the tapestry of the Imperium's future.
"Indeed," Aurelia continued, returning her attention to him. "I have been in extensive communion with Archmagos Cawl. I desire certain augmentations for the Mark X armour as well. Minor adjustments, perhaps, but incorporating technologies—nanite matrices, specialised mineral compounds—I never had the opportunity to bestow. We are currently endeavouring to disseminate these technologies as widely as feasible. Imagine, Roboute, the Mark X power armour infused with self-regenerating nanotechnology. A profound boon, though its integration will demand extensive time, and even then, such marvels will initially be exclusive to the Astartes Legions and you, of course."
"Mm. Am I to be your… guinea pig, sister?" Guilliman asked, a rare, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips.
Aurelia's laughter, like shattered starlight, was her only reply. "Aye, brother. You are the vanguard of these advancements. They will grant you an edge you will desperately require. I have personally synthesised a mineral alloy for your new panoply, an alloy powerful enough to contend with… them."
Guilliman's expression hardened, his eyes losing their fleeting amusement. He understood implicitly. Not daemons. Not Chaos Gods. But their brothers. The fallen. The betrayers who would be acutely aware of their father's renewed, if fleeting, sentience. "I place my trust in you, then. Archmagos Cawl and yourself… You make for a most formidable and potentially dangerous team."
"A compliment I assure you Cawl would find incredibly pleasing," Aurelia responded. Yet, Guilliman noted a subtle thread of concern in her tone, an almost uncharacteristic lack of absolute certainty. "We already possess a multitude of ideas and preliminary plans to aid you in this ambitious undertaking you propose."
"Do you disagree with my course of action?" Guilliman inquired, his voice calm, pragmatic. He was keenly aware that, despite her newly ordained status as Absolute Regent, a decree straight from the Emperor himself, Aurelia would never presume to dictate to him through sheer authority. Such overt command was antithetical to her profound, unifying spirit.
"I am in complete accord with your strategem," Aurelia confirmed, her gaze steady. "To remain stagnant is to invite annihilation. They are already assailing us; inaction serves only to expedite our demise. We must strike back." The pronouncement, delivered with such resolute conviction, made Guilliman take a deep breath. "My apprehension, brother, stems not from the strategic imperative, but from the immense administrative and logistical burdens such a crusade will impose. The sheer volume of planning, resource allocation, and bureaucratic oversight required… it is truly monumental."
"It is fortunate, then, that we possess a remarkable aptitude for… paperwork," Guilliman replied, a stoic tone barely concealing the faint curve of a smirk, a flicker of dark humour in his eyes.
"As long as your preferred quills and endless reams of parchment remain unbent," Aurelia teased gently, and Guilliman sighed dramatically, momentarily transported to the relentless, infuriating battles of ancient bureaucracy. His true enemy.
"Still, brother, we must address another imminent challenge," Aurelia continued, cutting a delicate slice of Terran orange and placing it on his plate. "The High Lords of Terra. They will resist."
"I anticipate nothing less," Guilliman conceded, accepting the fruit with a knowing nod.
This, Aurelia knew, was where the true test lay. She needed no arcane foresight to predict the entrenched resistance of the High Lords. Their power was woven into millennia of stagnation, their authority born of the very entropy she despised. Having served as a de facto Regent during the dark, desperate times of the Great Crusade, the Heresy, and her father's war within the Webway, Aurelia understood the labyrinthine depths of Imperial politics. She had witnessed firsthand the corruption that metastasised in the void left by their father's absence. She was, in her quiet wisdom, the ultimate diplomat, an empress groomed not for battle, but for governance. And Guilliman, though he often railed against the petty machinations of statecraft, was undeniably a master of its dark arts when forced. Together, they were perhaps the only two beings capable of prying the Imperium from its death spiral.
"What, then, is your precise intention?" Aurelia inquired, tilting her head, her gaze piercing and expectant.
Guilliman picked a handful of dark grapes, his calculating gaze fixed on some unseen point beyond the pavilion's arcades. "I shall announce the new Imperial reforms. I will personally initiate the removal of those High Lords whose intransigence poses an immediate threat to this new direction. Inevitably, those who harbour dissent, the deeper rot, will expose themselves through their covert opposition. We shall present them with sufficient bait, drawing their venomous efforts against me."
"A calculated gambit, indeed," Aurelia hissed, a rare edge entering her voice. "They will undoubtedly strive to derail the crusade, to consolidate their decaying power, and preserve the stasis that has rooted the Imperium so deeply even Nurgle would find its stagnation aesthetically repulsive."
"It would prove a difficult struggle, I fear, were I left to undertake it alone," Guilliman admitted, a touch of vulnerability in his tone that Aurelia recognised as genuine. "I would have found little time to engage in such intricate political warfare."
"Leading an army, an entire crusade, is always the simpler path," Aurelia affirmed, recalling Malcador's endless lessons. Their father, for all his boundless power and charisma, had often wrestled with the insidious currents of political will, turning potential allies into formidable enemies through sheer force of his own single-minded ambition.
Guilliman acknowledged the truth without shame. He was profoundly thankful that Aurelia, his younger sister, had been forged not just as a guardian, but as the true heir, tutored in the complex arts of interstellar governance.
"Let us focus on this, then," Aurelia stated, her gaze lifting to the murky, ash-tinged sky of Terra, a sky that had not been blue in millennia. A silent promise echoed in her heart. That, too, would change. "Let them expose themselves. We shall make indelible examples. The rest," she concluded, her voice ringing with quiet, resolute power, "the rest will then inevitably fall into line."