Since its creation, the Hall of Triumph had stood as the pride of the Indomitable Resolve and the entire 12th Legion.
It was a sacred place where every warrior, from the Legion Commander down to the newest recruit, could walk and reflect upon their glorious victories. The walls were lined with the tattered banners of countless conquered foes, torn from their corpses, symbolizing the Legion's golden age as the War Hounds.
Each morning, the 12th Legion Commander stood beneath the vaulted dome of the Hall.
Suddenly, the sound of hurried footsteps broke the silence, and metallic clanging echoed through the solemn hall as power armor boots struck the floor.
The noise was jarringly out of place in such a reverent space, almost an act of desecration, but when they saw it was merely the captain of the 8th Assault Company, every warrior swallowed the reprimands that rose in their throats.
The newcomer's heavy steps halted before the Legion Commander.
"Commander Locke," the captain said, "we've just received an astropathic transmission."
Locke slowly raised his head.
"Gheer, what news from our lord?"
The 12th Legion had been meant to conquer a rebellious world defying Imperial rule, a simple mission.
Their fleet had entered the warp from a nearby system's Mandeville point; the journey should have taken no more than twelve hours. But a sudden warp storm had blown them far off course, into an uncharted region unrecorded by the Imperium.
Star charts confirmed it: they were drifting in the remote southeastern heart of the Eastern Fringe, territory untouched even by the fastest Great Crusade fleets.
Thankfully, astropathic messages could still reach them on occasion.
"It's a congratulatory message from Terra," Gheer said bitterly over comms. "Another Primarch has been found."
He hadn't removed his helmet, perhaps to hide the jealousy twisting his expression.
"The 16th Legion? The 8th? The 17th?" Locke asked quietly.
Gheer replied, "The 6th. Their Primarch has named them the Space Wolves."
Though he'd expected as much, Locke's disappointment was palpable.
His voice was tight and sour, like bile forced through clenched teeth.
"That makes the fourth Primarch found… yet still our master refuses to bless us."
Gheer managed a bitter chuckle beneath his helm. "Who knows?"
When the Great Crusade began, all of the Imperium knew that one of the Emperor's closest friends had taken upon himself the sacred duty of finding the lost sons, the Primarchs, just as the Regent Malcador oversaw the Empire.
But to the Legions, that man's mission was far more arduous and far more worthy of reverence.
Yes, they honored Malcador's tireless service, but it was he who searched the stars to reunite the Emperor with His sons.
He had done so with astonishing success: the first Primarch found soon after the Crusade began, the second only a few years later.
By that pattern, three years between each rediscovery, it seemed everything was going well.
But the moon shines over Terra unevenly; some rejoice while others despair.
"Have the new logic sequences been calculated?" Locke asked.
Gheer shook his head. "The Legion's logisters are still computing, but they have no leads."
After the Primarchs of the 16th and 8th Legions had been found, the 4th Legion had been the most excited, since 8 is half of 16, and 4 is half of 8. Surely that meant they were next!
Never mind that the reasoning was nonsense; they thought it sounded logical enough.
The 12th and 20th Legions also had hope, since both 12 and 20 were multiples of 4.
Then the 17th Primarch was found, and that beautiful "multiple-of-four" theory was shattered.
The 9th Legion had been the next to cheer, "Sixteen, eight, seventeen, so nine must be next!"
Their reasoning was no better, but no worse than anyone else's.
And now, with the 6th Primarch found, even the 9th fell silent in disappointment.
"Gheer," Locke murmured, "did we… do something wrong?"
Gheer didn't know how to answer. Many Legions had begun to suspect that the sequence of rediscoveries wasn't random at all, but chosen by that man's personal preference.
Otherwise, why was there no pattern in the Primarchs' locations?
Especially the 8th Legion's Primarch, his homeworld lay at the northwestern edge of the Eastern Fringe, farther than any Imperial fleet could reach for centuries, yet he was the second to be found!
Rumor had it that that man himself had carved a warp route straight to Terra using his psychic might, solely to retrieve the 8th. If that wasn't favoritism, what was?
Still, few dared admit this aloud. To do so meant accepting that they had fallen out of favor.
So each Legion began examining themselves, wondering what flaw, what failure, had made them unworthy.
Perhaps, if they fought harder, he would finally take notice.
"Locke," Gheer said, resting a heavy gauntlet on his commander's shoulder, "at least we're not the worst off. Think of the First Legion."
Locke blinked, then nodded. "True enough."
The 1st Legion, oldest and largest of them all, had existed since the Unification Wars, one of the first three Legions to exceed ten thousand strong.
When the Crusade began, most Legions numbered far fewer. The 1st Legion was the Emperor's pride, and many had assumed their Primarch would be found first.
And yet, five sons had already been found, and the First still waited.
The 16th's rediscovery had been understandable; they'd earned the Emperor's favor by pacifying Luna, but the next three had silenced even the proudest of the First.
Locke admitted a flicker of dark amusement at their misery, but it faded quickly.
The 12th Legion wasn't much better off. They were the Emperor's "War Hounds," but neither the most honored nor the most infamous. Even the XVIIth, the Iconoclasts, had seen their Primarch return.
Locke sighed. "Gheer… do you think I'll live to see ours?"
The Great Crusade was brutal beyond imagination. Every campaign took countless brothers. Even Locke could not say whether he'd survive the next.
"Chin up, Locke!"
Gheer clanged his armored fist against Locke's shoulder plate, their helms nearly touching. His amplified voice boomed, "There are still sixteen Primarchs left! Who's to say we aren't next? Maybe this warp storm was his divine guidance!"
Locke laughed despite himself; neither of them believed it.
Warp storms were common; they'd simply drifted off course.
The odds of meeting their Primarch out here were absurd.
Besides, the previous four had all been personally found by the Emperor; what did that have to do with them?
"War Hounds!" Locke shouted across the Hall.
"The fourth Primarch has returned! Conquer more worlds, and even if we aren't the fifth, we will be the sixth, or the seventh!
"Whether our Primarch returns or not, we fight bravely for the Emperor. Never let our father be shamed!"
A resounding clang echoed as armored fists struck breastplates.
"For the Emperor! For the Imperium!"
"Status report," Locke said as he and Gheer entered the bridge, their power armor thudding heavily on the metal floor.
"Commander," the ship's captain began, "we've made contact with the rulers of the world below, Nuceria. Their civilization is fortunate; they still retain full use of High Gothic."
Before the Age of Strife, High Gothic had been humanity's common tongue, but millennia of isolation had caused most worlds to forget it. Usually, the Imperium had to learn local dialects before negotiation.
"Nuceria," Locke repeated. "That's this world's name?"
"Yes." The captain displayed a holo-map. "It's similar to other worlds we've found, cut off during the Age of Strife and fallen back into city-state civilization."
"Our diplomats report that they were well-received. Upon learning we hail from Terra, they eagerly pledged allegiance to the Imperium, on the condition that we grant them certain privileges."
"What kind of privileges?" Gheer asked.
"They wish to intermarry with Terran nobility, to preserve 'pure bloodlines.'"
"That's all?" Locke blinked. "I expected them to demand autonomy."
It was common for compliant worlds to request self-rule. The Imperium often allowed it; the administrative burden of a million worlds was simply too vast.
As long as tithes were paid and loyalty maintained, the Imperium rarely interfered. There were always more worlds to conquer, no time for civil wars.
"They did hint at autonomy," the captain continued, "and asked whether the Imperium would help them unify Nuceria."
"What's their city-state called?" Gheer asked.
"Devash."
"Lucky bastards," Gheer muttered.
Locke chuckled. Indeed, they were.
The Imperium only granted autonomy to unified worlds, for unity meant stability and steady tithes.
If multiple factions vied for power, the Imperium would usually back the first one it encountered, efficiency over ethics.
If needed, the Imperium would even assist in unification.
And if the other factions refused to cooperate, war would follow.
"What's their tech level?" Locke asked.
"Preliminary scans show several orbital defense platforms capable of damaging our battleships," said the captain. "We've also detected what may be a shipyard, though there are no fleet signatures."
"Defense platforms? Then they've preserved some ancient relics," Gheer noted.
"Could their fleet be hidden?" Locke asked.
"Unlikely. Worlds isolated since the Strife rarely invest in spaceflight, as it wastes resources and invites civil war. Scans show no warp signatures, no trace radiation from fleets."
"Still," the captain added, "given their ability to communicate with us through deep space, their civilization is not primitive. A ground invasion could be dangerous."
Locke nodded. "How long until we make orbit?"
"Approximately two Terran hours."
"Have they made other requests?"
"Yes," the captain replied. "Devash claims their city is under attack by mutants, creatures matching our description of beastmen. They've requested our help exterminating them, and even sent surface maps and coordinates."
"They say another city, Desh'ea, has already fallen, its people slaughtered. They want us to conduct an orbital bombardment."
Locke frowned. "They have defense platforms. Why not use them themselves?"
"The platforms seem controlled by another city-state," the captain explained. "And the systems haven't been maintained for centuries. No one knows if they even work."
"Typical of a lost civilization," Locke muttered. "Gheer, assemble your 8th Company for orbital drop."
If it were any other Legion, they might've suspected a trap.
But they were the War Hounds. The War Hounds charged first and asked questions later.
Gheer nodded silently and turned to leave, his armor's servos humming.
"Should we begin orbital bombardment?" the captain asked.
"No," Locke said firmly. "Don't trust the word of savages. They may be primitive, but they aren't stupid."
"You think they're deceiving us?"
"Why wouldn't they? We could erase their enemies with a finger's motion. Once Desh'ea is gone, who's to say it wasn't their own rival city?"
He paused. "Besides, the Emperor never forbade coexistence with beastmen. If they surrender and serve, they may yet live, for the Imperium."
Then, softly, "As long as they're still human."
Not all beastmen were; some had fallen too far into madness to ever serve mankind again.
The 13th Expeditionary Fleet was the War Hounds' main force, three thousand Astartes, with naval and support elements.
Gheer's 8th Assault Company, numbering exactly eight hundred and eighty warriors, was always at the forefront of every brutal landing.
They considered it an honor. The harsher the fight, the greater the proof of their courage.
The Dreadclawdrop pods tore through Nuceria's thin atmosphere, hulls burning orange-red as they fell like meteorites, carving fiery trails across the dusk sky.
[Impact in 30 seconds.]
The machine-spirit's voice crackled.
[Ten seconds.]
BOOM!
Gheer leapt from the hatch the instant it opened, only to find a boy standing before him.
"I wish to speak with you," the boy said calmly.
Gheer's heart seized. A deep, wordless recognition flared within him, the blood bond of kin.
He forced a grin.
"Father… do you like my gun, no, my armor?"
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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