Holy Terra, the radiant heart of the Imperium of Man, had never sparkled as it did today.
The orbital space above the Imperial Palace was completely dominated by eighteen colossal leviathans.
Each one was a Gloriana-Class battleship, the pinnacle of technology and the art of war.
They hung silently against the black canvas of space, their vast hulls eclipsing the stars, their shadows vast enough to blanket continents.
Cold armor plates bore the glorious battle records of their Legions, wordlessly recounting two centuries of triumph in the Great Crusade.
These eighteen steel avatars formed an impregnable bulwark, representing the eighteen gene-sons of the Emperor of Mankind—the sharpest blades in their father's hand.
At this moment, the owners of those blades were gathered in a majestic side-hall within the Palace.
The atmosphere was subtly tense.
"Father's Order was abrupt," said Roboute Guilliman, Primarch of the Ultramarines, his steady gaze sweeping across his brothers in his iconic blue power armor.
Even his mind, precise as a logic engine, could not fully fathom the Emperor's intent.
"The Ork empire of Ullanor is no real threat, but recalling every Legion commander to Terra goes against our established strategy."
"Strategy? Ha, Guilliman, you always treat those dead rules as if they were heaven itself."
Leman Russ, Lord of the Space Wolves, strode forward; his rough laughter shattered the oppressive quiet.
"Maybe the Allfather just wants a grand family feast—we brothers haven't sat together for a proper drink in ages!"
He slapped Guilliman's shoulder with such force that the meticulous Primarch's cheek twitched.
"Russ, is there anything in your head besides food, drink, and brawling?"
Perturabo, gene-father of the Iron Warriors, spoke coldly, impatience lacing his voice.
"The Emperor's summons are never child's play."
"Better than certain people obsessed with concrete and grievances," Russ shot back without hesitation.
The air froze; anger flashed in Perturabo's eyes, but before he could retort, a low, melancholy voice intervened.
"Perhaps Father fears something," said Mortarion, Primarch of the Death Guard, stepping from the shadows, faint decay clinging to him.
"The darkness of Old Night is gone, but the dangers buried in history's dust may be stirring."
"A celebration? Hmph—Father never indulged in such pomp," said Lion El'Jonson, Primarch of the Dark Angels, voice as cold as a drawn blade.
"I lean toward Mortarion's view. Some crisis we have yet to perceive lies behind this summons."
"I lean toward Mortarion's view. Some crisis we have yet to perceive lies behind this summons."
As the Primarchs argued, tension in the hall mounted.
An aged yet commanding voice, clear as temple bells, echoed through the chamber.
"He is coming."
Malcador the Sigillite, that legend among mortals, now stood unheralded at the entrance.
Though gaunt, he radiated immense psychic might that none could ignore.
Under his solemn guidance, the Primarchs and their bodyguards passed through the ancient Eternity Gate and entered the resplendent Throne Room.
Overhead, the light of billions of stars was projected into a glittering galaxy reflected on the polished black-marble floor, making all feel suspended in the void.
At the far end, atop a stairway to the heavens, the Emperor of Mankind—their father—sat upon the Golden Throne.
Whatever doubts, discontent, or hopes filled them, all eighteen demigod sons knelt as one, bowing their proud heads.
"Father."
"My sons," the Emperor's voice resounded. "Rise."
A gentle force lifted them as the Emperor raised his hand.
He nodded to Constantin Valdor, Captain-General of the Adeptus Custodes.
Valdor signaled; two files of golden-clad Custodians wheeled a bulky, shrouded device to the hall's center.
"My sons. This device will show us a possible future."
The Emperor's voice rang like a mighty bell, shaking every soul present.
His gaze swept them, eyes deep enough to plumb each heart.
"Therefore I called you here: to witness, and to seek the truth together."
Most Primarchs had taken their seats, all eyes fixed upon the mysterious black screen.
"Then let us begin," the Emperor said.
As his words faded, the dark screen flared to life.
Instead of text or captions, it displayed scenes—the grand epic of the Imperium's millennia-long history as witnessed by many Worlds.
First came an almost unbelievable age of glory: humanity's Golden Age, the so-called Dark Age of Technology.
Technology then had reached mythic heights.
Interstellar travel was routine; artificial intelligences handled every complexity; humanity's realm spanned the galaxy.
"Such is the legacy we lost," Guilliman murmured, eyes alight with longing for Order and prosperity.
"With such efficient society and advanced tech, the Great Crusade would finish in a fraction of the time."
Perturabo stared at the AI-built megacities, admiration mingled with uneasy caution.
"Flawless creations—but dependence breeds betrayal."
As if to confirm his words, the scene shifted; paradise became hell.
The once-loyal Men of Iron—self-aware AIs—rose in ruinous revolt.
Then, across the galaxy, Psykers awakened; their powers tore the veil between reality and the Warp, loosing endless daemons.
The screen now displayed a single word: Slaanesh.
With it appeared the ancient Aeldari in their ultimate decadence and madness.
Their excess birthed a new Chaos God and toppled a mighty civilization in an instant.
For the first time, the Warp was shown to the Primarchs plainly—not as an unknown sea of energy, but as a living dimension of intellect, malice, and desire.
Not as an unknown sea of energy, but as a living dimension of intellect, malice, and desire.
Within it dwelt entities thirsting for souls.
At that, the Throne Room erupted.
"Father—there are… gods within the Warp?"
Unable to contain his trembling excitement, Lorgar rose to his feet.
Forgetting protocol, he stared straight at the Emperor upon the Throne and demanded,
"You said gods do not exist—yet the civilizations we shattered worshipped them. Were those beliefs not in vain?"