"Primarch, oh Primarch…" Gheer murmured softly inside the DreadClaw.
He still remembered that day, years ago, when the Lord of Mankind announced the glorious beginning of the Great Crusade.
Twenty Legions. Hundreds of thousands of Astartes. Seven thousand fleets. Hundreds of thousands of battleships, an armada of unprecedented might in human history.
The Martian Mechanicum had hailed the Master of Mankind as the Omnissiah and devoted their hoarded fleets of millennia to his cause.
Now, the 13th Expeditionary Fleet had long since departed Terra.
The 12th Legion had been charging at the forefront of the Great Crusade, chasing the flickering light of the Astronomican into the deep void, branding lost worlds with the twin-headed Aquila of the Imperium and adding fresh ribbons of honor to their war-banner.
But their glory was incomplete, for their Primarch had yet to return.
Gheer could still recall vividly the time, more than a decade ago, when the Emperor summoned all Legions back to Terra.
Twenty Legions gathered to meet the Master of Mankind and the First Found Son.
The Primarch of the Sixteenth Legion: Horus Lupercal.
It was the first time Gheer saw a Primarch walking beside the Emperor. He remembered how the Luna Wolves howled with joy when told their Primarch would command them.
Their Primarch was the First Found Son, a supreme honor that made even the First Legion seem dim in comparison.
As more Primarchs were rediscovered, those Legions whose gene-fathers remained absent grew increasingly envious.
On every campaign, on every world, their longing burned hotter.
Each time a ship emerged from the Warp, warriors would whisper, "Could this unknown world be our Primarch's home?"
"Could that distant courier, that message from across the galaxy, finally bring the news we've waited for?"
[Launch countdown: 10… 9… 8…]
The Dreadlaws shuddered free from their magnetic clamps, ejecting silently into the frozen void between ship and planet.
When gravity began to drag them down, their armored hulls ignited into incandescent flame, plasma trails streaking behind them like steel comets.
"Father, oh Father… where are you?" Gheer whispered on.
He didn't even realize his comm channel was still open.
His warriors remained silent, but beneath their helms burned the same desperate longing.
Father, where are you?
"Focus, Gheer," came the calm voice of Legion Commander Locke over the vox.
Gheer shut his mouth immediately. He knew his duty. He would steady himself before impact.
Locke was the elder of the 12th Legion, one of its first commanders from the Unification Wars, and had led the War Hounds since the Great Crusade began. When he spoke, none dared disobey.
"Father…" Gheer muttered to himself. "What name will you give us?"
The Luna Wolves had kept their name, a prize earned during the conquest of Luna, one even their Primarch would not take from them.
The 8th Legion had become the Night Lords.
The 17th, the Word Bearers.
The 6th, the Space Wolves.
Every name reflected the character of its Primarch.
What name would their Primarch choose?
What kind of man was he?
Would he be like them, a loyal hound of the Emperor?
No… surely their Primarch would be more than that.
They took pride in being called the Emperor's War Hounds, but perhaps their Primarch would not.
It was rumored that, apart from the First Found Son, two other Primarchs did not share an easy relationship with the Emperor.
No one knew what kind of bond the latest rediscovered son would have with Him.
Gheer had no right to judge such things, but privately, he wondered.
Could it be that their Primarch had not returned because they were called the Emperor's War Hounds?
The thought grew wild in his mind.
"Should we… change our name?"
Though "War Hounds" had been a title bestowed by the Emperor Himself, perhaps renaming would signal their devotion to the Primarch's return.
Even if it was a foolish thought, Locke might still consider it.
They would do anything, anything, to bring their gene-father home.
But to abandon the Emperor's gift would border on sacrilege.
They couldn't rename the Legion without the Primarch present.
They'd need Imperial approval from Terra.
And if word spread?
The other Legions would mock them as superstitious fools.
And if the Primarch still didn't return, after forsaking the Emperor's honorific?
Then the 12th Legion would be the laughingstock of the entire Imperium.
Still… what if?
What if he truly came home?
[Impact countdown: 60 seconds.]
The machine spirit's voice trembled faintly beneath its mechanical monotone, a quirk of all Dreadclaws, whose spirits were notoriously eager for battle.
"We are the War Hounds."
After a long silence, Gheer's voice cracked like thunder through the comms.
"In the name of the Emperor! For the Primarch! Tear them apart!"
"They're coming."
Angron lifted his gaze skyward. Dozens of burning meteors were tearing through the atmosphere.
The Aeldari would never descend by drop-pod; they considered such brutish warfare beneath them.
Even after the fall of their empire, those spectral xenos could still vanish into the Webway and appear anywhere in the galaxy.
With his sight, Angron could discern the truth: those "meteors" were drop-pods, claw-like in shape, screaming through the clouds.
That meant the fleet above belonged to the Imperium, but not to the Emperor himself. The Emperor would never attack his own son.
It must be one of the Crusade fleets, and clearly, they'd already been in contact with Devash.
"Leader, what do we do?" called Oenomaus.
Angron turned to his warriors. They were veterans of bloody melee, yet the sight of enemies falling from the sky made even them tense.
"Oenomauas, take the warriors and hide in that forest. I will go speak with the Imperium. This war can still be avoided!"
His eyes swept the crowd and stopped on Caelan.
"Father, help me, just this once."
Caelan's expression softened into a warm smile.
"I told you long ago, if you asked, I would help."
[Impact countdown: 10… 9… 8…]
The Dreadclaws blazed through Nuceria's skies like meteors.
Retro-rockets roared, melting the landing zone into rivers of molten red stone.
Then their sealed petals unfurled like steel flowers.
Warriors in blue-and-white Mk II power armor leapt from within, their ceramite boots slamming into the ground with a resonant thud.
Through crimson tactical lenses, targeting data locked and analyzed within a second.
Gheer raised his bolter, ready to fire, yet hesitated.
Two figures stood calmly before the drop-site.
'Just… humans?'
'No ordinary human could survive a Dreadclaw's descent!'
Gheer stayed alert, but when his gaze met the boy's, an indescribable shock coursed through him. His hands, so steady in countless battles, trembled.
'Impossible.'
'It couldn't be wrong, this had to be him.'
The boy spoke first, in flawless High Gothic, "I wish to speak with you."
The words weren't loud, but each syllable pressed against Gheer's mind with divine weight.
His heart clenched as though crushed by an unseen hand.
How could he refuse?
How could he ever refuse?
Lowering his weapon, he forced a pitiful smile beneath his helm.
"Father… do you like my, my armor?"
Angron studied them.
Their upright posture, the crimson hounds on their shoulders, he knew at once.
War Hounds.
He had learned from Caelan's memories that they were his sons, but seeing them in the flesh stirred something deep within him.
He didn't know what to say. After a pause, he forced out a dry compliment:
"The armor… looks good."
The awkwardness was suffocating.
But beneath his helm, Gheer was already weeping.
'I was the first to meet our Primarch… and he praised my armor!'
"Gheer! What are you doing? Bring the Primarch aboard!" Locke's voice roared over the comms.
Their encrypted channel linked the ground and the fleet above, a lifeline unbroken.
The ships that had held safely beyond orbit now cast aside all protocol, accelerating to 25% of light-speed, charging straight toward Nuceria's orbit.
To hell with safety regulations.
They were bringing their Primarch home!
"Father!" Gheer dropped to one knee, voice trembling with emotion.
"Please, return with us to the Resolute Will! Every warrior of the 12th Legion yearns for your return!"
The drop-pod's machine spirit ignited.
Unlike later models, these ancient Dreadclaws could relaunch themselves.
But Gheer didn't care. How could he make their gene-father ride in a Dreadclaw?
Too dangerous!
Too disrespectful!
Only after the fleet suppressed orbital defenses would they send a full Stormbird formation to receive him properly.
Angron shook his head. "My mission is not yet complete."
'Mission?'
Before landing, Gheer had been told Nuceria was gripped by civil war, between Devash and Desh'ea.
Devash claimed Desh'ea had rebelled, overrun by beastly raiders who slaughtered its people.
But now, truth struck like lightning,
The "rebels" fought under the Primarch's banner!
Gheer's growl echoed through his helm.
Devash lied to them!
This wasn't a rebellion, it was a revolution led by their gene-father!
Every Primarch had conquered his birth world. The 8th Legion had been envied for fighting beside their sire in his unification.
Now, at last, it was their turn!
"My Lord, grant the 12th Legion the honor of clearing your path! Your sons will die gladly for you!"
He bowed low, ashamed that Locke had believed Devash's lies.
If not for Gheer's restraint, they might have fired upon their own father!
Locke would have to answer for this; he must beg forgiveness before the entire Legion!
Angron regarded him quietly. "Your name?"
Gheer straightened, fist pounding his chestplate.
"Captain Gheer Varen, Eighth Assault Company, 12th Legion, reporting for duty, my Lord!"
The name Gheer gave Angron pause.
In Caelan's shared memories, he had glimpsed a shadow of the future,
Gheer, the future Legion Commander, beaten to death by his father's own hands in the Hall of Triumph, alongside almost all his senior officers.
Angron's gaze swept the blue-white warriors.
"Remove your helmets."
They obeyed instantly. The hiss of servos filled the dusk.
"I'm sorry, Gheer."
Angron leaned down and gently embraced him, so softly it was like catching a falling feather.
Gheer froze, tears streaking his face.
Why… was the Primarch apologizing to him?
No, the Primarch could not be wrong!
It must be his fault!
He hesitated, then pressed his ceramite knuckles lightly against Angron's back, careful as though touching glass.
"My Lord… we will always be your sons."
"Then help me, Gheer," Angron said softly. "Help me free this world."
"At your command, my Lord. Your will is our mission!"
"We have our Primarch!"
Locke's voice shook with emotion. The ship's captain understood why.
Even demigods like Astartes were, before their father, merely children, and many were younger than the mortal captain himself.
"We have our own Primarch now!" Locke's declaration rang with fire.
"He will command us as he sees fit. We shall serve him as we serve the Emperor! The War Hounds shall become the sharpest sword in his hand! Our plans mean nothing; only his will defines our purpose!"
The captain bowed. "My Lord, Nuceria's liberation remains incomplete. The Primarch refuses to board. Shall we employ orbital bombardment? The guns are ready."
Locke's rage flared. He wanted nothing more than to burn Devash to ash for their deceit, those liars who'd turned their guns on their own father!
But reason held him back. The Primarch had not ordered it. He could not act without command.
He was merely a Legion Commander; what right had he to override their gene-father?
Even if he tried, his brothers would seize him for treason.
"Relay to Gheer: seek the Primarch's permission."
The Primarch would likely refuse. Orbital fire was swift, but dishonorable.
It didn't matter. Three thousand War Hounds stood ready.
At a single word from their father, they would crush his foes utterly.
Gheer knelt again. "My Lord, the Legion Commander requests authorization for orbital strike."
"Denied," Angron said firmly. "There are millions of innocents behind Devash's walls. Bombardment would cause needless slaughter."
"My Lord!" Gheer bowed his head. "Then allow us to seize the city for you. The War Hounds will tear down their walls before dawn!"
"The War Hounds may fight," Angron replied, "but they will fight with the rebels, not over them."
He understood their hunger for glory, but he would not rob the revolutionaries of theirs. He wanted his sons to fight alongside the people, not above them.
The War Hounds' reputation in the Imperium was infamous, no better than the Ninth Legion's. They took no prisoners. They had even executed mortal allies for "dishonor."
A saying spread throughout the Imperium, "When the War Hounds are unleashed, there are only two outcomes, glorious victory… or slaughter."
Though the Emperor had forbidden such atrocities, disdain for mortals still festered in the 12th Legion's hearts.
Angron would change that.
"Never underestimate the warriors of Nuceria," he warned.
"The High Knights' guards can match Astartes in skill. Do not take them lightly."
"Yes, my Lord." Gheer bowed his head again, humbled by the Primarch's tone.
The War Hounds prided themselves on their discipline; it was what kept their fury in check.
Now, seeing their father's compassion for mere mortals, they realized: If he could be merciful, so could they.
.....
If you enjoy the story, my p@treon is 30 chapters ahead.
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