On the desert battlefield—
The earlier clash with Chaos had churned nearly a hundred square kilometers of ground as if ploughed, shaving off a whole layer of earth.
In places, vast craters yawned; everywhere lay wreckage and char and ash.
On a high point of the line, a Savior's Honor Banner left by the Redemption Legion snapped in the powder-scented wind.
"Has…the war… ended?!"
The Lion stared, stunned, at the Honor Banner speared into the daemon prince's remaining bones.
The Savior had reached this world as well—and dispatched the foe so quickly that the field was already policed and sanctified.
He had even left an Honor Banner as remembrance.
By Imperial custom, a holy statue would be raised here in time to commemorate the war.
A pang of frustration pricked the Lion.
The Savior always arrived a step ahead.
He had run himself ragged to get here, only to witness the other's victory.
"By the Emperor…"
Marshal Haraga of Avalons, having received word from the Redemption Legion, hurried in to assume the remaining duties.
She surveyed the field—holy fragrance mingled with scorched odors—and let out a breathless exclamation.
Her voice brimmed with joy and disbelief.
The degree of purification far exceeded anything she had imagined.
As a commander of the Astra Militarum's sectoral forces, Haraga could judge threat levels.
This Chaos incursion was, at minimum, sector-ending scale—yet the Savior had cleaned it away in the briefest span.
It was as if Avalons had not even been scratched while the invaders were annihilated—almost like Chaos had never come at all.
"My gods—is this tilth?"
Haraga had noticed the change in the desert itself; her voice trembled. "Our wasteland's turned to nutrient-rich, fertile soil—how is that even possible?
A miracle. It must be a miracle wrought by the Savior!"
Avalons was a desert world with cruelly poor soil; such tilth was priceless.
It also held water.
That meant oases—a new, more livable city.
This was what the Savior's purification left behind.
Once, purification teams merely neutralized taint. But under the Savior's new green, healthy, sustainable doctrine, even they had started to "compete".
They would not only cleanse pollution but steward the environment; the mix of combusted Chaos biomatter and purifying reagents could reinvigorate the land.
Under such a regime, heretics and xenos would no longer devastate humanity's living space so easily—because their corpses would be treated as nutrient mulch delivered to the doorstep.
Some bioscience cells, rumor had it, were even exploring controlled Tyranid husbandry and methods to refine highly concentrated energy from chitinous biomass.
They had been slapped down for extremity of thought—allowed to research, forbidden to act.
To Haraga and the others newly come under the Savior's aegis, these were miracles—paths they had never conceived.
In their experience, heresy and xenos always left permanent ecological wounds, scars that never healed.
Who could have imagined fighting a war that didn't wreck the environment but fattened the earth instead?
"We will raise an Oasis Holy City here—a new capital for Avalons!"
So thought Haraga.
She would erect the holy effigy at this battle site to honor the Savior and build a ring-city of oases around it to ease the world's strain.
"Who goes there?"
Suddenly the guards bristled, lasrifles raised.
They were tense—afraid Chaos stragglers hid among the ruins to strike at their marshal.
A moment later, a towering warrior trudged into view, armor all but shattered, filthy as if he had crawled out of a crater.
A man, certainly—an abnormally tall Angel of the Emperor.
Haraga relaxed and waved the guard to lower their weapons.
"Warrior of His Majesty the Savior—do you require aid?" she asked, concerned.
He looked like he had just hauled himself from a trench—battered and grim—evoking pity.
The Savior's forces had already withdrawn. Had he been accidentally left behind?
So thought the Marshal of Avalons.
The Lion had already taken offense that mere mortals dared level guns at him; on hearing her words he felt his patience fray further.
Do I look so much like one of the Savior's underlings? Am I, the Lion, to have no dignity?
It worsened his mood, already poor.
He drew a deep breath and steadied himself.
To vent on the weak is no conduct for a Knight of Caliban—still less for a primarch.
A primarch is a guardian of mankind, not a tyrant on high.
"I am Lion El'Jonson…"
His voice was sonorous but not threatening—no intimidation in it—only a formal declaration: "Gene-Primarch of the Dark Angels, a loyal son of the Emperor."
He held himself with austere gravity.
It was only that his hair and beard were a wild mess, his armor torn open to the air—bare abdominals, half a pectoral—and the shredded stub of a cloak on his shoulders…
Not exactly conducive to awe.
"A primarch? Like His Majesty the Savior?"
Haraga swallowed, then peered up at the Lion like a child at a behemoth.
A primarch?!
Her eyes were full of astonishment—tinged with doubt—though she masked it well.
"Another primarch's return would indeed be a miracle."
She offered a polite, slight bow, careful to show no disrespect. "Avalons has known many miracles of late. I did not expect yet another."
"I can offer no miracle," the Lion answered softly, reading the mortal commander's doubt. "Nor any proof beyond what you yourself have seen.
But the knights who march with me can attest to what I—the First Primarch—did upon Kamas. You will meet them soon enough."
He knew proving himself would not be simple.
Anyone claiming to be a primarch of ten millennia past invited skepticism.
Worse in an Imperium rife with heretics, xenos and traitors—teeming with upstart schemers and Chaos-mad charlatans.
"These days, trust is rare. Truth is ever slippery."
Haraga still did not quite believe.
His Majesty the Savior was so holy, so mighty, so handsome and grand—traveling with Custodian Guard, wreathed in hymn and light.
But this self-proclaimed primarch—plain, unglowing, battered armor, a bit… dingy—
The gap was too great. He simply didn't look like a primarch.
Who could blame the Marshal? In legend and in texts, the Emperor's sons were ever heightened, made myth.
They appeared on the field with wings, or halos—like miracles in the flesh.
The Savior's recent appearances had only entrenched that stereotype; Avalons had come to expect primarchs to be thus.
So when the Lion arrived, hearts scarcely stirred; awe did not kindle.
Put simply: the Savior had inflated the primarch's "aura", making it harder for later primarchs to command presence.
Where were they to find glimmering, VFX-ready armor, a personal phalanx of Custodians, hosts of legendary heroes, and a Titan Honor Guard?
"My lord, His Majesty the Savior and the Emperor's Angels still hold low orbit above Avalons. Your return will surely delight them."
Haraga gazed up at the faint silhouette of the fleet in the high air, face bright with reverence.
She was not fit to judge a primarch's authenticity; let His Majesty the Savior authenticate the Lion.
It was the best course.
"Commander, signal the Savior and the Dark Angels. I will meet them. The Imperium shall know the First Primarch has returned."
The Lion, too, had seen the fleet and the fortress bearing his sigil.
He smiled and nodded.
This turn of events was better than he had hoped; the Dark Angels' arrival would save him no small amount of labor and speed the mustering of force.
It would spare him an isolated meeting with the Savior.
A primarch's name carried weight, yes—but it might not cow the Imperium's upper echelons, least of all this self-styled Emperor.
The Lion still doubted that claimant's identity.
If conflict proved unavoidable, he would need leverage to subdue the man.
"The Savior is, at least, a capable logistician," the Lion mused. "Perhaps he can serve the Imperium better in that role."
Even if the Savior had draped himself in the Emperor's authority to beguile the masses, the Lion had no intention of removing him—now, the Imperium needed talent.
A deputyship, perhaps—thus could the man assist the Regent of the Imperium.
Even now, the Lion shied from donning the imperial crown himself.
Fwoom—
A ripple of the empyrean rolled down from orbit.
Eh?
The Lion looked up to see the Dark Angels' fortress and the Savior's fleet—suddenly, as if on urgent cause—plunge into the Warp.
In moments, they were gone from Avalons' sky.
…?
He stared at the empty firmament, thunderstruck. "I'm still on the surface—couldn't they have waited?!"
For a heartbeat, he felt very much…left behind. Imperial forces—and his blooded sons—had flown off with the Savior, leaving their gene-sire standing alone.
Only the father remained.
Hot wind combed the field; silence fell.
The Lion drew a slow breath and turned to the Marshal.
"Commander. Tell me of this blasphemous war. Tell me… everything about the Savior."
His pressure—quiet, irresistible—brooked no refusal. Haraga bowed her head.
"As you wish. I will tell you all I know."
The self-proclaimed primarch carried no taint; repeating the Savior's great deeds to him did no harm.
Carefully, the Marshal recounted the Savior's advent.
The descent, the rescue of the Fallen guardians, the emplaced defense, the annihilation of the invading Chaos.
The Lion listened, patience tight in the fist. His eyes grew grave.
Outwardly he betrayed little—but inside, storms crashed. His hands, clenched, trembled.
"What—he's the Hope-Primarch, the Emperor's heir—and the Custodian Guard attend him?"
"The Fallen have sworn to the Savior?"
"He didn't even join the fight? Simply judged the foe unworthy of his blade?"
"He prayed, and a miracle restored the soil?"
The more he heard, the more absurd it sounded.
His face had gone full "what am I even hearing?"
"Perhaps the Savior truly has bewitched the masses," he growled, brows drawn, anger sparking.
There was no way that man was a primarch—no way he was the Lion's "cheap younger brother". The First Primarch would know.
Power or no, he could not be as mighty as described by a mere mortal commander—
And the Custodian Guard would never serve as his bodyguard!
Those supremely proud golden wardens suffer no masters save the Emperor; not even a primarch commands them as bodyguard.
Much less would they willingly play honor guard to a "Savior".
He—first, most loyal son—had never been granted such honor. The Savior could not have it.
The Emperor, their father, had made Horus Warmaster—but he had also armed the Lion and the First Legion with greater powers.
They were allowed to employ forbidden archeotech; they were authorized to command the Men of Iron as war-tools, to pull back the brink.
Those Men of Iron lay sealed within a pre-Imperial vault of the Dark Age of Technology.
His status had not truly been less than Horus'—indeed he possessed the right to employ extinction-level weapons.
Hence the Lion's confidence.
Whatever foe he faced, he could answer.
Even if the Savior had seized Imperial power by sleight of hand, the Lion could take it back by force—then silence all dissent.
The Lion knew his father, the Emperor.
With Horus fallen, the Emperor would surely choose a leader of strength to put things right.
Guilliman, among the loyal, was dead.
Only one choice remained—himself. No other would do.
"My lord, this is the virtual record the Savior left at his descent. You should see it."
Haraga noted the warrior's doubts and, a bit nettled, produced more proof.
The Savior's propaganda arm had left a memorial projection—not only to commemorate the war, but so Avalons' people might, on holy days, gaze upon the Savior, feel that sanctity and might—
And feed their faith.
Hummm—
A holo-projector traced images into the air—the best angles of the Savior's arrival.
First—the Emperor crowning the Savior.
Then the Savior in golden war-plate, bearing the Emperor's Sword, appearing with the Custodian Guard and a Titan Honor Guard—so holy, so commanding—
It was the very image of the Master of Mankind in procession.
"Father—no… Savior!"
The Lion's eyes narrowed to pinpricks.
His lip trembled. The scenes on the hololith hit like a hammerblow.
What had the world become?
The golden armor was real. The Emperor's Sword—real. The Custodian Guard—real.
The Lion knew the Emperor's regalia—he could tell.
The Savior wore Father's golden panoply—carried Father's holy blade—and traveled with the Custodians?
"How… can that be…"
The Lion swayed.
It felt as if some bastard unknown had stolen his birthright.
He had, more than once, imagined donning the Father's golden plate, lifting the holy blade, and standing guard over the Imperium.
The Savior had done it first.
He closed his eyes, a sliver of pain beneath the sternum. "Father, I am your most loyal son. What has happened?"
He burned for truth. He wanted to see the Father—needed to know why the Savior had been chosen.
"My lord!"
Zavriel came at a run, near-collapse, refusing to fall.
Even aided by his power armor, just catching the Lion had nearly wrung him dry.
He fought his breath under control; something strained in his face. "My lord—I reached the Fallen. They replied."
Once the Chaos miasma cleared, Zavriel had used a special rig and secret channels to find Avka and the Fallen.
He told them the Lion had returned, that their gene-sire forgave them all—that he would erase their shame and welcome them back.
The Fallen answered.
Before he could say more, the fleet's jump had cut the link.
"This is rare good news. What did my sons say?"
The Lion's spirits lifted a fraction; the dark weather in him eased.
A faint smile curled his lip.
Surely the Fallen—the blood of his blood—would rejoice at their gene-sire's return?
Surely they would leave the Savior's side and return to their father's embrace?
Zavriel's gaze flickered.
He hesitated—then simply projected the Fallen's message. "My lord… best you read it yourself."
The Lion's heart sank at the sight of his son's face. A bad feeling.
He read.
Polite enough—an outline of their present state, and a statement of their intent to continue fighting under the Savior's banner.
In short:
"Father, let's keep our distance. I wouldn't want His Majesty the Savior to get the wrong idea."
There was still grievance there—the Fallen had chosen the Savior, the generous foster-father, over the gene-sire.
For the Lion—who prided himself on personal magnetism—it was a second strike to the heart.
He turned his back on them all.
Right now the Lion only wanted the quiet.
He stared at the distance; the hot wind on his skin could not thaw the chill within.
Hah. A little cold, isn't it.
…
Night.
The Lion and his party did not depart. They bivouacked to await the mortal knights, then move on.
To gather more strength.
Perhaps even to unseal the Men of Iron in the vaults of the Dark Age, that the Imperium might be better served.
"Father—what choice have you made?"
The Lion lay on the tarp floor of a field tent, sleepless, turning.
The Savior held Imperial power—had spirited away his blooded sons—and taken the Dark Angels' fortress.
It left him with a bitter thought: If the Savior exists, why was the Lion born?
Drowsing at last, the Lion dreamed—of a silent forest.
By some psychic current he wandered Caliban's woods again.
Only now, he held more of the reins.
He felt a familiar presence and followed the old path to the brook where he had awoken.
But the little boat and the angler upon the river were gone.
"Father… is it you?"
Murmuring, he stepped into the river, waded across, and entered that shrine-like hall.
He knew the Emperor waited within. He had so many questions to ask…
(End of Chapter)
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