I. Ullanor — The Noon Hour
The void burned green with Ork fire. Vox‑nets snarled. Macro‑batteries answered in paragraphs. On the approach vector, Aurelia's works did what works are for—they kept men alive long enough to matter.
"Stellaris holds at one‑jump," a fleet‑adept reported. "Pharos lanes steady. Choirs clean. Regia/Pharos‑Three/Choir‑Green reports ninety‑seven percent clarity."
"Keep them clean," Aurelia said, eyes tracking the constant updates spilling to her across the vast vox‑nets. "Sword and shield, not spear. Regulate heat on the Corona Aegis; no redlines without my word."
Two Aquila‑class battlecruisers cut wide arcs, Corona Aegis shimmering as they soaked the first crude salvos. Stellaris‑class Battleshippickets bled speed from Ork kill‑fleets with Grav‑Shear bursts; Ferrum‑Cantor tanks rode their dropships down and hit the ground running, ventral gravs hissing over slag. In orbit, an escort screen traded bones for seconds; on the decks of the Stellaris command behemoth, a mortal Saturnine Bridge‑Mind stitched ten thousand stations into one thought: hold the corridor, hold the hour.
On the surface, the Emperor and His Legions broke the great war‑engine empire of Ullanor. The Ork Overlord—Urlakk Urruk—roared his last, and silence, finally, had room to stand. Soot fell like black snow. Someone laughed once and then remembered where they were.
A chorus of channels flooded open at once.
"XVI reports breach complete. Casualties within projection."
"IX holds Angel's Lane—civilians clear."
"VII confirms clean terraces. Pattern Tempest holds."
Horus's voice found her across the net. "Your ships held our flanks for six hours," he said. "That's three cities of the living."
She smiled at a bulkhead and forgot how tired she was. "Then the math was worth doing."
Dorn's approval came as sparing words: "Clean breaches. Keep the pattern." Sanguinius sent only a soft, private: "Fewer names for the lists," and she knew he meant dead. Fulgrim called her patterns "a structure for victory," and added, wry, that even a peacock could admire utility.
The Emperor spoke least. On the triumph field He set the Imperium's noon in a single gesture—He named Horus Lupercal Warmaster—and gave His daughter the small, businesslike nod that meant continue. Praise would have been mercy. The nod was command. She took it as love.