Part I - New Dawn
The day of reckoning arrived with a swiftness that surpassed Aurelia's expectations. The High Lords, in their monumental, almost pathological ignorance, had truly been staggeringly foolish. To believe that a clandestine coup, orchestrated to regress the Imperium to its former, glorious stagnation, could unfold without her absolute knowledge or tacit approval was beyond comprehension. Aurelia considered this with a chilling clarity. In the twisted intellect of Irthu Haemotalion, the previous Master of the Administratum, she discerned the pervasive delusion: ten millennia of slow decay, of grinding despair, had, in their minds, validated their belief that maintaining the status quo – which they termed the "Static Tendency" – was the path to ensure the Imperium's survival for another ten millennia. The sheer, audacious inanity of such thought was infuriating.
Aurelia couldn't fathom how these High Lords, these relics of a bygone era, could genuinely believe that a small, calculated rebellion against her brother, her First Consul and the Lord Commander of the Imperium, would be tolerated. Or that she, the Absolute Regent, would accept it as if she were a mere figurehead of bureaucracy, allowing them to pursue their antiquated ambitions unopposed. Yet, she reminded herself, ten millennia of stagnation, of ignorance, had reduced humanity to a spiritual nadir, a point where even during the terrifying Age of Strife, such collective stupidity had not been the norm.
Her own consciousness, attuned to the very fabric of existence, had expanded in her waking state. She now perceived future, past, and present with breathtaking detail, a vast tapestry of causality constantly unfolding before her. Keeping herself grounded in the present, in the fragile reality she inhabited, while simultaneously navigating this boundless prescience, was a profound, ceaseless challenge. To be omniscient, omnipresent, and omnipotent was the ultimate dream of every aspiring god. But for Aurelia, who could encompass all of that and more, it was an immense annoyance. One could not be all of that without ceasing to be a singular, sentient individual. To be all was to be precisely that: all. And Aurelia did not wish to be all. She simply wished to be herself.
A perplexing paradox, no doubt, for any lesser being, but one she embraced in constant internal debate. Nonetheless, Aurelia knew she must eventually create tools to manage this overwhelming power, to refine its application without consuming herself. But not now. For now, she must simply endure and cleanse the manifest stupidity of the humanity she so desperately sought to save.
Aurelia sat in a temporary command cell, a small, austere monastery sanctum. A Tech-Priestess, her personal Omnissiah's envoy, moved with fluid, cybernetic grace, ensuring Aurelia was equipped with every necessary communication device: always linked, always listening, always capable of reaching any point in the Imperium, or beyond. The pervasive chatter of the Senatorum filled her auditory feeds. The voice of Irthu Haemotalion resonated through her internal vox-caster, delivering a pontificating speech. He spoke of how the High Lords had always been the true, unyielding protectors of Terra, how their centuries of vigilant service stood as testament to their blessed status, their divine favour from the God-Emperor Himself. Aurelia rolled her eyes, a gesture of profound exasperation at the self-serving rhetoric.
The word "heresy," she mused, was being bandied about far too freely in this dark millennium. If anyone knew the true extent of her thoughts concerning the Imperial Cult, or the horrifying concept of her father as a god, the Inquisition would undoubtedly declare her the greatest Heretic of all time. But that, she knew, was a discussion for another epoch. More pressing was the insidious nature of Haemotalion's current address, for even by the narrow, zealous standards of these very High Lords, his actions now verged on treason.
"Your Highness, your transport is arriving in three minutes," Leontus Valeriad, her devoted Champion, announced, his voice tight, barely concealing a simmering anger. Aurelia's amusement remained hidden, but she offered a slight nod.
"It seems they have finally chosen to expose themselves," Aurelia murmured, listening to Haemotalion's increasingly strident pronouncements. "They acted with haste, driven by fear. They must have sensed their window of opportunity closing. Shame. Stagnation invariably breeds incompetence and a debilitating inability to adapt. It is a malaise my father deeply loathed." Aurelia sighed deeply, a profound weariness settling upon her. She knew, with chilling certainty, that this nascent "Hexarchy," this cabal of corrupt High Lords, would inevitably lead to further deaths. It was a solemn duty, one that she would have preferred to avoid, but such cancerous ideology had to be surgically excised from the Imperium's very root.
Haemotalion's voice swelled, booming across the Senatorum. "And so, it is our solemn, holy duty! To guide the Imperium into a new age, into a new ability to survive! It was under our wise stewardship that humanity learned true safety. It was under our careful governance that Terra found a modicum of peace! And to restore the glorious times of the past! Our Highness must be compelled to see reason, to truly grasp what the God-Emperor demands of all of us! The Senatorum Imperialis has led humanity for ten thousand years, and it must continue to lead, for countless millennia more!"
Aurelia arched an elegant eyebrow, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of amusement touching her lips. Did he genuinely believe such empty rhetoric held any sway among the desperate populace? Had her efforts not taken root? Her extensive visits to the battle-scarred sectors of Terra had deliberately cultivated a new narrative, a powerful counterpoint to such stagnant ideologies. It was a meticulously executed strategy, planned months ago when her prescient visions had first shown her this very scene. By showcasing her humanity, by granting them a tangible taste of a hopeful future, the concept of clinging to the status quo had lost its appeal. People had tasted the oranges of hope, the apples of renewal, the strawberries of a brighter tomorrow.
Aurelia had subtly twisted hope itself, transforming it into a sharp blade in the hearts of Terra's populace. They now saw her as more than a distant symbol; she was a living tangency, a rule, an authority that resonated with their very souls. And as much as she resented the necessity, the image of her persona as holy, as the divine Princess-Regent, granted her immense political leverage against these entrenched powers. The Ecclesiarchy, despite her profound dislike and inherent detestation for its pervasive dogma, possessed an undeniable utility: it held systems in check, controlled billions, and, most importantly, disciplined the very High Lords themselves. None, not even the most arrogant, would dare overtly defy the daughter of the God-Emperor, the Princess-Regent who conversed directly with Him on His Golden Throne. She would continue to wield that unwieldy institution until the precise, opportune moment arrived for its complete dissolution.
This was a profoundly different strategy from the one her father might have employed. The Emperor of old, she knew, would have incinerated the Ecclesiarchy to ashes long ago. But her father, now a sentient but imprisoned will, understood the grim importance of faith, however misguided, in binding humanity together, preventing its utter collapse into despair and the hungry maw of Chaos. The Imperial Cult, in its fractured, fervent form, was a chaotic glue, and to remove it now, with humanity's countless enemies poised to strike, would be an act of galactic suicide.
"There is nothing more to be done here," Aurelia sighed, a note of grim resolve entering her voice. She watched as an Orion Assault dropship transport descended, its Noverrium-infused hull gleaming, a unique, multi-use aircraft personally crafted for the Adeptus Custodes a long time ago, and behind it, a group of Lionguard Thunderhawks, robust enough for a theatre of war, yet elegant enough to be the Princess-Regent's escorts.
"Your Highness," Leontus stated, extending his massive gauntlet. Aurelia took his hand, allowing herself to be guided towards the waiting Thunderhawk. As they walked, her mind focused on the immediate future. The Hexarchy's imminent betrayal, she knew, was not her fault, but their actions had compelled her to order the cleansing of Terra's soil of their treacherous grasp. For that, she must issue commands she would have preferred never to speak.
Malcador's ancient words echoed in her mind, clear as the chimes in the Basilica Liminalis: "To spare the guilty at scale, Princess, is to condemn the innocent at scale. Know which ledger you answer to. And choose accordingly."
Aurelia recalled her old query: "But what if I don't want to hurt people?"
And Malcador's stark reply, imbued with millennia of weary wisdom: "Princess, you fear to harm; I fear what your fear will let die. Heiress of Terra, you were not crowned to be harmless—you were crowned to be responsible. Choose. Cut. And carry the pain. That is how you save your people, and the Imperium."
Aurelia, at the time of the Heresy, had believed she understood the profound weight of that counsel. Time, and the searing fires of civil war, had proven her wrong, illuminating the terrible cost of choice. To let one planet fall for the salvation of two, to sacrifice a system to allow others to fortify, had resulted in billions of deaths. It was a weight that had crushed her. But now, she stood resurrected. And now, she would do whatever was necessary to save them all. Whatever the cost. Whatever the necessary action.
Aurelia stopped, turning to face her Champion.
"Leontus," she commanded, her voice calm, devoid of all emotion, cold and precise as an assassin's blade. "Assemble a small, trusted team from the Lionguard and the Officio Assassinorum. Eliminate all key personnel of Haemotalion's household and all others demonstrably involved in the Hexarchy. Cleanse their residences. Intercept all communications. Interrogate those close to them for further connections, for any lingering roots of treachery. Purge it all. Ensure no supporter, no sympathiser, no willing co-conspirator remains alive. The Officio Assassinorum will deal with the High Lords themselves. But I will not countenance this act of betrayal ever again. Not one soul who conspired against us will remain."
Leontus Valeriad met her gaze, his expression unblinking, unreadable beneath his helmet. He offered a swift, resolute nod, pure determination radiating from his stance.
"Understood, Your Highness. It shall be done."
Aurelia stepped into the waiting Thunderhawk, the ramp hissing shut behind her. She understood, with profound clarity, the magnitude of the actions she had just set into motion. The coming days would be filled with grim duty, with the arduous task of updating Guilliman, discerning who among the High Lords truly remained loyal, and who had fallen into this treacherous abyss.
"Imperium Aeterna," Aurelia whispered to herself, her mind already moving to the next steps. "It's over." The words were not of finality, but of the close of one chapter, the beginning of another. She would rebuild, step by arduous step. And every individual who sought to preserve the corrosive stagnation, to cripple the burgeoning hope, would be eliminated. For hope was not merely a word, but a profound action. And to achieve a better tomorrow, one must, if necessary, cast the ashes of the past aside. By force, if needed.