Chapter 497: Black Templars: "Where is My Father? Where in the Stars is He?"
Seeing Arthur carefully stow the Codex Imperialis, Romulus was the first to stand, shattering the reverent silence that had settled over the chamber.
Roboute Guilliman snapped to attention with the suddenness of a hydraulic bolt, his face a mask of iron discipline. Internally, he was reciting litanies of stabilization, praying to the Throne that he wouldn't be paired with the Formless Lord, Ramesses.
Anyone but him, the Regent thought. I cannot handle another lecture on Warp-CFO management styles.
Across the table, the Lion—having already reviewed the mission briefs—was well aware that he was to lead the primary host of the Dark Angels across the galaxy to secure key Webway apertures. He blended into the crowd as they rose, maintaining an expression of stoic focus. He was making himself as inconspicuous as possible, terrified that some "special attention" from his already irritable Father might fall upon his head.
On the surface, he was a silent predator. In his mind, he was mapping transit routes, seeking to vanish into the work before the "Old Man" looked his way.
"Corax," Romulus said, handing the Emperor-stamped directives back to the Lord of the Raven. "Segmentum Tempestus is your charge."
"Understood," Corax replied with a curt nod.
His first objective was to return to Deliverance. He intended to stabilize the moon of Kiavahr and anchor it as his own Warp-domain, laying the foundation for the tactical maneuvers to follow.
The strategic weight of the Dawnbreakers' Empyrean policy rested on Karna's "Hallowed Sun" domain. Unlike the Emperor's presence—which was an incandescent supernova that even the Four Gods avoided—Karna's realm was a "Lesser God" domain built upon the focused faith of the masses. It had to be saturated with troops and materiel to withstand the inevitable sieges of the Warp.
For this, the Dawnbreakers looked to the Lion and the Raven.
The Lion had already proven the feasibility of "Homeworld Integration." A Primarch could forge a deep metaphysical bond with his world, transforming it into a mobile fortress-domain. This allowed for near-instantaneous military deployment between reality and the Empyrean.
Vashtorr the Arkifane had attempted a crude version of this when he reassembled Caliban into "Wyrmwood." He had used the conflict between the Mechanicus and the Necrons in the Pariah Nexus as a screen to tear into reality. If a daemon-smith could achieve it, true Primarchs wreathed in the Emperor's light had even more leverage.
Furthermore, an Astartes bearing a Primarch's gene-seed was effectively a "Loyalist Daemon" in the Warp. They were far superior to the twisted amalgamations serving Vashtorr. With a super-fortress like Deliverance or Caliban capable of shifting between dimensions, the Dawnbreakers could cauterize the fires of war across the galaxy with unprecedented speed.
And with Dawnstar nearby, and the industrial world of Kiavahr at hand, the populations of these "anchors" could be safely evacuated or reinforced.
As for the prospect of a refusal?
Romulus watched his three brothers—each a masterpiece of a different kind of trauma and brilliance—and wondered.
Truthfully, a refusal was unlikely.
The Raven Guard's reverence for Corax was absolute. It was whispered that the XIX Legion had grown to be the third-largest Chapter-Lineage (trailing only the Fists and the Ultramarines) because the high command believed Corax had vanished because he deemed their numbers too small. They were desperate to prove their worth.
Well, they are Daddy's Boys, Romulus mused. They just inherited Corax's brooding nature and his habit of overthinking everything.
The real bottleneck was Corax himself.
Scattered by a thousand tragedies, Corax loathed the burden of leadership. He was terrified that if he interfered too much with his sons, he would lead them to another disaster like the "Raptor Project." He feared having to execute his own children once more.
I think my Father is wrong, but I will not say it.
I think my Father's critique is just, but I will not say it.
I know I am leaving because the duty is too heavy, but I will not say it.
In this galaxy, silence is the most efficient way to break a heart.
Watching Corax's conflicted expression—the look of a man who had failed his socialization protocols—Romulus turned a dangerous eye toward the Emperor.
The Master of Mankind, currently taking a rare break to enjoy a nutrient-drink and basking in the relative peace of a mortal frame, felt a chill go through his borrowed body. He looked as if he expected Romulus to fire him on the spot.
In truth, the girl's body was fine.
The silver-green bracelet on her wrist—a gift "donated" by Trazyn and supposedly "peer-reviewed" by Orikan the Diviner—utilized Necron chronomancy to reset her biological status. Every time the Emperor used her as a vessel, the bracelet would rewind her physical state to peak health, allowing her to go out and "play" as a normal human afterward. It erased Romulus's guilt regarding the exploitation of youth.
The technology, of course, could not rewind the Emperor Himself. He remained mentally sharp and spiritually exhausted.
"I feel My mental state is being overlooked," the Emperor grumbled. The Dawnbreakers' plan to turn Him into a "Sector-wide AI Toilet-Operator" to enhance administrative efficiency was, in His opinion, quite rude.
"You endured the Golden Throne for ten thousand years. This is a holiday in comparison," Romulus countered.
"So, because I can endure suffering, I should be given an infinite supply of it?"
The Emperor looked stunned. The ancestors of the "Dragon Kingdoms" were truly built different. The "grind" was apparently a trans-temporal constant.
"Why fear it? We bleed together, we win together," Romulus said, leaning on the table.
"And if You claim to be tired, I won't hear it. Two Segmentums and five Special Zones were on our backs for decades. We couldn't let policy stay at the top; we had to drive it to the bottom."
"Look at our results. Is the Chaos threat being countered?"
"Er... yes," the Emperor admitted.
"Is the living standard of the citizens rising? Is the military capacity of our sectors growing?"
"...Yes."
"Are the Eldar and their Webway in the fold? Are You finally able to 'get off the pot'?"
"...Yes."
"Did we get it done?"
"...Yes."
Exhausting? Perhaps. But the KPIs don't lie.
Romulus's rapid-fire interrogation left the Emperor without a retort.
And truthfully, this was easier than the Great Crusade. The Dawnbreakers had optimized the hierarchy. They had pushed decentralization where appropriate and unified the command where necessary. They had reduced the redundant psychological baggage of the Imperium. Everyone had a niche.
For the first time since the Fall, the leaders had time to sit, eat, and discuss the next move rather than frantically jumping from one fire to the next without a moment for post-war analysis.
"Could You have gathered this many Primarchs for a constructive argument during the Crusade? No. You would have sent them back to the front within minutes."
"Hmph. I disagree. The Council of Nikaea had more attendees than this," the Emperor spat, trying to hide His embarrassment with a drink of water.
"And did Nikaea produce a result You liked? Out of eighteen Legions, only two actually listened to Your 'Imperial Truth' regarding the Warp."
"I—" Romulus cut him off with a look of pure, administrative pride.
Though their system lacked the "Hyper-Intelligence" of the Old Ones and relied heavily on Romulus's "Super-Power of Management," the direction was correct.
The desire for a better life for the people and themselves was a motivation that could not be corrupted.
The rest was for Guilliman—the specialist in statecraft— to fine-tune and sanitize.
"The facts show that the Dawnstar Doctrine is the only constructive ideology the Imperium has seen in ten millennia. It is more reliable than the Imperial Truth. You should have joined us long ago, Father. It beats the meaningless toil of the High Lords."
"..."
The Emperor went flat-faced.
Something is wrong. Very wrong.
How did I end up in a timeline where 'Overtime for the Dawnstar' is considered a divine privilege?
High Inquisitor Aglaia Hesiod maintained her composure. Nearby, the "Metal Abhuman Scholar" (Trazyn), who had secured Dawnstar's permission to shadow her, was stroking his chin as he read her ledger. His metallic eyebrows arched in a curve of disbelief.
Not a single word edited?
Trazyn instinctively reached out to "borrow" the page.
Unfortunately, the Inquisitor—now his direct superior in the Department of History—was sharper than she used to be.
Before his hand could move halfway, Aglaia turned her head. Her sharp, golden-brown eyes fixed the thief in place.
"..."
Trazyn raised his hand and adjusted his necrodermis robes.
Occupational hazard.
Sigh.
He watched the group huddled together. He thought of the Eldar already mapping the Webway, while he had to act as a "frequently refreshing NPC" at the Dawnbreakers' side just to stay relevant. It was a heavy burden.
"Heh."
Corax watched the bickering between his Father and his partners and allowed himself a small chuckle.
The tension in his heart eased. He tucked the stamped directives into his chest-plate. He realized he was being far too melodramatic. These partners, who had never known the Legion era, were giving their all for Humanity. Why was he hesitating out of fear of responsibility?
Decision-making was sometimes that simple.
When Corax felt crushed by the weight of being a Primarch, the Dawnbreakers reminded him that he wasn't that important. He wasn't the sole pivot of the galaxy. The responsibility wasn't his alone to carry.
It sounded like a slight, but to Corax, it was the ultimate balm. The string was no longer taut. The duties he had once abandoned no longer felt like a death sentence.
He still feared failure. But with his brothers' validation, fear was just another tactical variable.
Wooo—Wooo—
Rows of massive landers and troop-carriers sat on the pads of the Maelstrom Guardian's fortress. North of the spaceport, on Victoria Plaza—an open landing field swept by cold winds following a comet-impact—assault ramps were lowered. Hatches gaped like the hungry beaks of predatory birds.
Tens of thousands of NCOs and logistical staff were boarding in disciplined lines. Every soul was bundled in heavy coats, shouldering weapons and packs, their voices a low murmur as they discussed deployment grids.
This cadre of advisors would travel with the Primarchs, being dropped off at various worlds along the route to disseminate the lessons learned from the bloody Siege of Badab.
Helbrecht, High Marshal of the Black Templars and the "Grand Honor-Bearer" of the Dawnstar Crusade, descended from an Astartes transport. He utilized a dedicated lane to move through the crowds.
His HUD chimed as it scanned the faces of the boarding troops, identifying veterans of a hundred engagements.
They wore new uniforms, their faces rimmed with frost from the comet-wind. They squinted against the glare, sipping hot, high-calorie nutrient-drinks while exchanging quiet observations.
Helbrecht had always viewed Victoria Plaza as a hallowed place.
Once a grand parade ground under the shadow of the Badab Star-Ring, it had seen countless hosts gather and march into history. Not long ago, the Great Defense had begun here.
Now, it was a place of honor, greeting the return of multiple Primarchs.
This soil, illuminated by the beacons of the grand fleet, had witnessed the triumph of the greatest heroes. It had seen the massed might of a unified Mankind paying homage to the laurels and banners of the victors.
Arthur, Romulus, Karna, Ramesses, the Lion, Corax...
And the "Ambition-wreathed" Guilliman.
Yet, in a hundred years, Rogal Dorn had not returned.
Walking past the jubilant sons of Guilliman, the Lion, and the Raven, Helbrecht led his unified Black Templars. He ignored the sorrow of the "Orphaned" Chapters like the Mantis Warriors, keeping his head down, his heart aching at the realization that the face he sought was still lost to the stars.
No prediction. No clue.
Since the meeting five days ago on the Honor of Macragge, the heavy truth of the "Emperor Protocol" had sat upon Helbrecht's soul. He pushed it back, forcing himself not to overthink. He knew the plan only because his rank granted him the right to stand in that room.
He was a man of trust.
But as he watched the men and women prepare for the crusade—seeing the genuine joy on the faces of the Astral Claws and the pride radiating from Huron—the weight returned.
He felt the hidden grief of those whose Sires had not returned.
Only one can fix this...
Helbrecht looked up.
He found his target. The man was standing on the loading ramp of a silver-and-blue Stormbird, flanked by his companions. The towering giants remained together. Helbrecht had feared he might miss the first wave of extraction, but he was in time.
He stepped forward, the waiting soldiers parting like a sea.
Lord Arthur Pendragon was bidding farewell to his partners. Helbrecht could hear fragments of their conversation. The Lord of Knights wore long, wind-swept robes over his plate. The silhouette of black armor and a black blade always triggered a phantom sense of déjà vu in Helbrecht.
"The objectives are clear for everyone?" Romulus asked, confirming for the final time.
"No issues," the Lion replied.
Compared to the hesitant Corax, the Lion had recovered his absolute poise. Leading massive army groups in a galactic game of fire-brigade was nothing new to him. He was a creature of the grind.
When the Lion said it, you could believe it.
And times had changed.
Arthur patted his brothers on their pauldrons. "Use the vox if things get messy. Do not assume. Remember: communicate. We are no longer isolated Legions. We stand as a unified front; every one of our strengths is a resource for the others."
Arthur and Ramesses were teaming up for the combat operations surrounding the "Emperor Protocol." The first step was Armageddon. Romulus and Guilliman would move between the Special Zones to stabilize production and streamline administration. Karna would serve as their aegis. The duties of the Lion and Corax had been reinforced several times.
"If the vox fails, I'll have the Emperor call you personally," Arthur joked, patting Ramesses.
The Lion's majestic posture withered slightly at the mention of his Father's "Phone Calls." He waved a hand dismissively.
"Understood. I will report via the Psionic Council as needed."
Karna laughed. "Stay in touch, Boss!"
"We'll call you if we find a cool sword," Arthur added.
A restrained yet undeniable look of joy touched the Lion's face. He bid his farewells and turned, walking into the shimmering emerald mists of his forest-walk. His silhouette was swallowed by the spectral leaves.
The Lord of the Raven was engaged in a final conversation until, overwhelmed by his partners' enthusiasm, he silently merged into the shadows.
The Primarchs parted. One by one, the group thinned.
But the departure held no sorrow.
Distance was no longer an obstacle. The link between them remained as solid as adamantium.
"..."
Helbrecht stood frozen for a long time, watching the empty ramp.
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