Part I - The Praetorian's Great Work
The Phalanx had once been a peerless marvel of human ingenuity, a colossal, moon-sized orbital station that had brought countless renegade worlds to swift compliance during the Great Crusade. It was a testament to the Imperium's burgeoning might, a source of immense pride for the VII Legion and a symbol of Terra's unyielding strength. But ten millennia of relentless war, of sieges and attrition, had taken a heavy toll. During the Thirteenth Black Crusade, at the cataclysmic Battle of Cadia, the Phalanx had stood at the heart of the conflict, single-handedly destroying the Blackstone Fortress Will of Eternity. Yet, this victory was pyrrhic. Cadia fell, and the Phalanx, scarred and bleeding, led the desperate Imperial evacuation from the system, its ancient hull bearing the wounds of a thousand battles.
The truth was, the Phalanx had been decaying for millenia, its ancient systems failing, its structural integrity compromised by millennia of constant warfare. The void battle above Cadia had merely exposed the deep, pervasive rot. It was scarred, shattered in places, its once-formidable defences now a patchwork of desperate repairs. Many of its most ancient, irreplaceable systems had ceased to function entirely. Thus, it came as no surprise when the Imperial Fists, upon their return to Terra, petitioned the Princess-Regent for the resources to repair, refit, and upgrade their beloved fortress-monastery.
Aurelia granted them not just permission, but a trove of forbidden knowledge. She ordered the Shadowkeepers to unseal Dark Cell "X-032-F," revealing a piece of esoteric technology that, when combined with the equally arcane Vexen Cage—a relic from the Dark Age of Technology—would allow them to mend the Phalanx's most critical systems. And she gave them more. Aurelia had, in the final, desperate years of the Horus Heresy, conceived a multitude of creations, born of a desperate need for acceptance, of a furious, hopeless yearning for her father's pride. Malcador himself had been forced to intervene, for she had delved into knowledge she barely understood, combining the cold, hard logic of the Necrons with the arcane wisdom of the Old Ones and the cosmic power of the C'tan. The resulting weapons and technologies were so esoteric, so profoundly dangerous, that their use was not merely risky but potentially suicidal. She had expanded the Dark Cells beneath the Imperial Palace to house these insane, desperate creations.
One such cell, "F-3309-A," held dozens of proto-armours for her Custodes Immortalis Laureate, bulky, slow, yet incredibly powerful constructs, their design echoing the forbidden schematics of the Men of Iron. These were too volatile, so she had turned to Necron lore, creating her own version of Necrodermis, a living, golden armour of self-repairing nanites. Within these cells also lay Aurelia's unique Biotransference machine—not the horrific, soul-stealing engine of the Necrons, but a device that could, with the willing consent of a dying Custodian, transfer their soul into a new, immortal body.
And there lay other marvels: unique weaponry, and a revolutionary shield system inspired by the reactive hulls of Necron war-constructs and the most advanced force fields of the Old Ones.
The Phalanx was now poised to undergo the most significant refit in the Imperium's long, bloody history. And there was no soul more trusted, more capable of transforming it into the impregnable shield of Terra that the galaxy now required than Rogal Dorn himself. He wasted no time, immediately immersing himself in the colossal task of making the Phalanx ready.
Dorn had always harboured his own designs for the Phalanx, his own grand ideas for its expansion and enhancement, but he had never possessed the resources, the technology, or the time to bring them to fruition. And the Adeptus Mechanicus, with their rigid, almost insane dogma of the "holy" machine, had presented an insurmountable wall of resistance to any modification of the ancient vessel.
Now, Dorn had the perfect excuse. He possessed the technology, the resources, the time, and the absolute authority to enact his vision. He would add everything he had ever conceived, and more.
When he presented his ambitious schematics to Aurelia, she simply stared at him, her celestial eyes wide with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. She looked from him to the sprawling plans, and back again. "Why…?" she finally asked, her voice a soft, incredulous whisper. "It is twice as big, brother… utterly unnecessary."
Dorn, his face a mask of unyielding pragmatism, simply replied that it was of paramount importance to increase the Phalanx's overall mass, to add two new grand hangars, to expand its drydocks, to transform it into a mobile command centre for the Crusade. And he intended to integrate more of her "esoteric" technologies and weaponry.
Aurelia knew she could not dissuade her stubborn, single-minded brother. With a deep, weary sigh, she authorised his grand, almost megalomaniacal, designs. Let no one say she did not spoil her elder brother.
Nevertheless, it would be a long, arduous process before the Phalanx reached a state that Dorn deemed worthy. And knowing the Praetorian of Terra, his relentless pursuit of absolute perfection, it could take a century, if need be. Yet, while this monumental work was in progress, Dorn found himself confronted with another, more personal, and entirely unexpected challenge: the ceaseless, unwavering stare of his own Huscarls.
The return of a second Primarch was hailed as a divine sign, a miracle from the Emperor, a promise that his sons were returning to guide humanity through the horrors of the Great Rift. Dorn, of course, would never subscribe to such zealous notions. For him, this was a gift from his sister, a second chance. But he could not deny the profound, positive impact his return had on the masses, and especially on his own sons, the Space Marines of the Imperial Fists. Two Primarchs had returned, and with the Princess-Regent now at the helm, it was, in their eyes, a true miracle.
Dorn shuddered with a profound disgust at the thought of anyone praying to him. Yet, he had to admit, the way people looked at him, as if he were a walking demigod, was deeply unsettling. And the raw, almost desperate emotion of his Imperial Fists upon his return, during the grand ceremony, made him realise that there was a deeper, more fundamental problem at play.
Dorn stood in the grand command centre of the Phalanx, the beating heart of the colossal orbital station. He wished to personally oversee the rebuilding efforts, to assess the true extent of the damage it had endured. Yet, as he walked the vast, echoing corridors, inspecting the progress, he was constantly shadowed by his honour guard, the Huscarls, their every movement a silent, almost paranoid vigilance, as if they expected an imminent attack.
Dorn took a deep breath, recalling his sister's words. She had described how Guilliman's sons had experienced a similar phenomenon upon his return—a profound sense of a void being filled, a powerful, almost spiritual connection that alleviated the deep-seated depression and hopelessness that had plagued them for millennia. The death of a Primarch, it seemed, left a psychic wound upon their gene-sons, real and powerful. And Dorn's return, brought about by Aurelia's Eden Stasis Pod, had instantly filled that void within every Imperial Fist and their successor Chapters. Yet, it had also cultivated a new, almost obsessive attachment, a desperate, irrational fear of losing their gene-father again.
"The Koala effect," she had called it, a faint, amused smirk on her face. Dorn recalled her words, how his sons would cling to him, their paranoia so intense it would rival even the Dark Angels. The name, taken from an ancient Terran creature, was, he had to admit, strangely apt.
"Koala indeed," Dorn muttered to himself, as the Huscarls formed a perfect, moving wall around him.
He took a deep breath, striving for a moment of relaxation, a near-impossibility amidst the palpable tension of his own honour guard.
"My Lord Primarch," a voice, respectful but strained, broke his concentration. He turned from the schematics to see Gregor Dessian, the current Chapter Master of the Imperial Fists. A man who, barely a year prior, had assumed command after the previous Chapter Master's death in combat. Gregor was, understandably, agitated and stressed, having inherited a Chapter reeling from the catastrophic defeat at Cadia, and now faced with the monumental task of rebuilding under the direct, unwavering gaze of his resurrected Primarch. He was under immense pressure not to disappoint.
"I have made contact with the lower levels, my Lord. The Electro-Priests and Transmechanics have confirmed that the implementation of the new hulls and engine batteries should not exceed five standard Terran months."
Dorn scanned the timeline, a meticulously detailed chart outlining the full scope of the rebuild, upgrades, and construction. Five months for the new engine batteries was within his strict timetable.
"Good. The sooner we address the vulnerability of the lower levels of the inner sanctum, the better. It appears the enemy has repeatedly exploited the same weaknesses." Dorn's voice was harsh, unyielding, his words devoid of any emotional restraint, causing Chapter Master Gregor Dessian to physically flinch, as if Dorn had struck him for his perceived inability to defend the Phalanx.
"My Lord Primarch…! Forgive me for failing to defend it!" Gregor fell to his knees, his voice thick with shame and guilt. Dorn hissed, not at Gregor, but at himself. He had forgotten. Forgotten how his words, so direct and unadorned, could be perceived as harsh, even cruel, by his sons.
"Stand up, Chapter Master Gregor Dessian," Dorn commanded, his voice now softer, more measured. "This is not your fault. Nor is it the fault of your predecessor, Chapter Master Vorn Hagen. Both of you have performed your duties as Terra's shield with exceptional honour and courage. I do not blame you for the enemy's ability to exploit our weaknesses. I blame myself."
Dorn's words echoed in the grand hall. Gregor looked up, his eyes wide with surprise, to hear such an admission from a Primarch. The other Imperial Fists stood in stunned silence. To listen to a Primarch accept blame, for anything, was a concept so alien it was almost heretical.
Dorn could almost read their thoughts: A Primarch can do no wrong. A lie. He could, and he had. His own death was proof enough.
"It was my mistake," Dorn continued, his voice now a low, solemn rumble. "A flaw I should have rectified long ago. Time, resources… a lack of focus… these things prevented me from truly preparing the Phalanx to face the enemies of this new age. And my sons have paid a heavy price for my oversight."
The Imperial Fists remained still, processing their gene-father's words. Gregor bowed deeply, and Dorn wondered if his sons truly understood the weight of his admission. But from the expressions on their faces, he doubted it. They were his sons, after all, and their loyalty was absolute, often blinding.
"My Lord…" Gregor began.
Dorn placed a massive hand on Gregor's shoulder. "Chapter Master, stand strong. We are the wall of Terra. We do not fall to our knees."
Dorn's words, a simple, powerful reaffirmation of their creed, sent a jolt of renewed purpose through every Imperial Fist in the chamber. They straightened, their postures rigid, their gazes unwavering. Each of them struck their chest with a clenched fist, the sound a booming, unified echo.
Dorn returned to his schematics, exhaling deeply. He noticed then, scribbled in a hasty, elegant script across his meticulously planned schedule, a new entry: "Tea with my dearest, adorable, and beautiful sister!" scrawled over his planned visit to the Enginarium. And beneath it, a second, more forceful note: "And don't you even think about missing it. I am ordering you as your Princess-Regent."
Dorn's lips quivered, a faint, almost imperceptible upward curve. He did not laugh; he rarely, if ever, chuckled. But a genuine, warm smile touched his face at his sister's playful command.
"So be it, my Princess," Dorn said, a soft chuckle threatening to escape his lips.
Part II – The Throne of Starlight
The grand chamber, now Aurelia's designated throne room, was a symphony of history and intent. Immense, soaring ceilings were adorned with breathtaking murals, each a meticulously crafted tableau depicting the glorious triumphs of the Unification Wars and the Great Crusade. These were the moments Aurelia cherished, the images of her father and his sons, her brothers, in humanity's brightest hour. Yet, woven into the very fabric of these celebratory scenes were subtler, more poignant additions—shadows of her long-lost siblings, their faces half-hidden, their figures painted into the periphery, their presence a silent, sorrowful secret that only she, and perhaps they, could truly perceive. She had even commissioned a grand mural of her beloved uncle Malcador, his grim, stoic countenance a constant, almost scolding, reminder of the relentless demands of governance, of the petitions from the High Lords that required his immediate attention.
Aurelia smiled, a faint, melancholic expression, as she surveyed her domain. This was to be her throne room, the official heart of the Imperium, where she would rule as Princess-Regent, the highest authority in all the land, second only to the silent, golden presence of the Emperor himself. She was his voice, his will, his hand. Were she to decree that every citizen of the Imperium must wear blue underpants tomorrow, it would, she mused with a flicker of dark amusement, inevitably come to pass. But from this grand chamber, from the magnificent throne at its centre, she would lead, pulling the Imperium back from the very brink of utter destruction.
The vast throne room was far more than a mere hall of audience. It was a sprawling, multifaceted command centre. In one corner, the newly crafted holographic map of the galaxy, a testament to Magos Delta's genius, hummed with a constant stream of information, updating her in real-time on the progress of the Indomitus Crusade and a thousand other fronts. This section of the chamber buzzed with the ceaseless activity of her chosen Magos and their attendant servitors, decoding vox-transmissions, analysing data-slates, and presenting the filtered, prioritised intelligence to her.
Across from this hub of strategic command, another section pulsed with a different kind of energy. Here, intricate cogitator arrays and specialised communication machinery allowed Aurelia a direct, unfiltered link to the thousand Space Marine Chapters scattered across the galaxy—or, at least, those she could still reach. It was a way to bypass the suffocating bureaucracy of the Imperium, to directly assess the needs of her brothers' sons. And the Space Marines, in turn, were profoundly grateful for this direct line to the Princess-Regent, a conduit for their desperate pleas for supplies, for reinforcements, for her unwavering support. Aurelia did all she could, her every effort a vital lifeline in the burgeoning war.
Yet, beyond these pragmatic necessities, Aurelia's primary focus remained the throne itself, a singular creation that would allow her to finally focus her boundless power with unprecedented precision. It was not a grotesque, agonised echo of the Golden Throne, but a marvel of elegance and esoteric technology, a throne designed not just for governance, but for communion. Its gilded form, sculpted from auramite and sleek Noverrium, rose in a series of steps, almost two floors high, the Imperial Aquila emblazoned upon its back in a gesture of regal authority. Rogal Dorn, in a final act of filial devotion, had added the last, majestic touches, ensuring its design was worthy of the Praetorian's hand. Draped across the cold, hard steel of the throne was the Emperor's ancient, red cape, a relic from his walking days, now repurposed as a soft, comforting pillow for his daughter.
But for all its external beauty, the machinery behind it was a disquieting sight. A grotesque, almost organic, network of pulsing green tubes and intricate, alloyed vines snaked from the very foundations of the tower, a cold, metallic embrace that lent the throne a terrifying, almost predatory air. It was a miniature, albeit far more elegant, version of the Golden Throne itself, a truth Aurelia quietly acknowledged with a shudder of unease.
Still, the throne's purpose transcended mere aesthetics. Aurelia walked towards it, her every step a deliberate, measured cadence. At its apex, near the pulsing green conduits, stood Archmagos Dominus Rho-21, his multi-limbed, augmented form making the final, meticulous adjustments. The Archmagos, noticing her approach, bowed, his immense, grotesque body creaking with the effort.
"Princess-Regent," he spoke, his voice a chorus of echoing, robotic pronouncements. "All is prepared."
Aurelia nodded, her gaze fixed on the throne, a colossal structure that seemed to grow even larger in her proximity. She took a deep breath, and the Archmagos presented her with the crown.
The crown, like the throne, was a unique creation, a powerful artefact designed to synchronise with her immense power, allowing her to wield it with precision and care, to prevent the accidental, catastrophic release of her boundless energy that could sear the souls of those around her. It was also a key, a singular conduit to unlock the throne's full potential.
The throne and the crown were one and the same, a symbiotic system. The crown, by itself, would permit her to channel a small, focused fraction of her power. But when seated upon the throne, the two would resonate, unlocking a profound new capability: the ability to traverse the Immaterium with an unprecedented level of safety, to project her essence across the galaxy, to stand beside her brother, Guilliman, on the furthest, darkest frontlines.
It will take time for me to fully comprehend its use, Aurelia thought, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the crown, an ethereal diadem that resembled the golden laurel of her father, yet larger, more complex. But this is a far safer path than immersing myself in my own boundless dimension. The Basilica is too vast, its power too untamed. And the C'tan, with their incessant, bickering whispers, are a profound distraction.
"Let us see then, Archmagos Dominus, the full extent of this magnificent, holy machinery you and the Fabricator-General have wrought," Aurelia stated, a confident smile gracing her lips.
The Archmagos's binary speech was a loud, joyful chorus as the Princess finally took her seat upon the throne.
And in that moment, as she settled into its embrace, she felt it: a lock, for which she, and she alone, possessed the key. A door, one she so desperately needed to open, now stood ready before her.
Aurelia's mortal form still, her eyes closed, yet her consciousness soared. She allowed her essence to become a bridge, a luminous thread stretching across the chasm between realms. Then, she became the land itself, a stable isthmus connecting the Materium and the Immaterium. Finally, she was the traveller, crossing that very bridge.
She drew a single, deep breath and opened her true eyes—the eyes of the Ember of Creation. Before her, the galaxy unfolded, a tapestry of realspace and its psychic reflection, a sight both familiar and profoundly different from the one she beheld in the Basilica Liminalis. From her personal dimension, she was an outside observer, merely dipping a toe into the cosmic ocean, for to submerge her full, boundless essence would be to unleash catastrophic waves, storms of unimaginable power that would shatter the fragile realities of both realms. It was a constant, frustrating limitation; for all she had learned, for all the control she had painstakingly cultivated, her primordial power remained a force too vast to wield without causing unforeseen, often destructive, ripple effects.
With her new throne and the shimmering diadem, however, she now possessed a new tool. It was, she mused, like a submersible, a deep-sea exploration vehicle she could pilot remotely from the safety of the Basilica, without ever truly committing her full self to the treacherous currents of the Warp. It was safe. It was controllable. And it allowed her to focus her immense power with unprecedented surgical precision.
And with such a marvellous new tool, she thought, a spark of mischievous, childlike glee igniting within her ancient soul, she would test its limits. She was going to annoy the Chaos Gods.
Given that she was a being Tzeentch could not perceive, an anathema to his scrying, it was laughably easy for her to slip into his crystalline labyrinth. She had to be careful, of course. She was, in this projected form, still within the Warp. Though the Chaos Gods could not detect her passive presence, a direct, aggressive act could draw their ire. A confrontation would not harm her true self, but it would sever the connection, resulting in a monumental headache and a profound sense of disappointment. But where, she thought, was the fun in being caught?
Aurelia hummed softly, a low, melodic sound as she observed the Changer of Ways—a kaleidoscopic storm of shifting forms, sitting, or standing, or perhaps spinning upon its throne of ever-changing paradoxes. It was, she discerned, deeply engrossed in some grand, cosmic scheme, its million eyes attempting to pierce the veil she had so carefully woven around Terra, desperately trying to perceive the Emperor's Daughter.
With the mischievous impulse of a rebellious child, Aurelia reached out, a phantom limb of her projected essence, and gently poked a few of his endlessly gazing eyes. Tzeentch, caught in the throes of his grand calculation, hissed in a chorus of a billion frustrated voices, his concentration utterly shattered, his intricate web of futures momentarily unravelling. The sight of the eldritch entity so flustered was glorious. Aurelia giggled, a pure, unadulterated sound, and swiftly moved on to her next target.
Khorne. The Lord of Skulls was even easier to provoke. She did not engage him in combat; that would be a fool's errand. Instead, with a subtle manipulation of the local reality, she simply… misplaced his favourite weapon, his colossal greatsword, from its customary resting place beside the Skull Throne. The Lord of Rage, deprived of his beloved instrument of slaughter, rose from his throne in a paroxysm of pure, unadulterated fury, his bellow of rage shaking the very foundations of his bloody domain. None of his Greater Daemons, caught in the throes of their own mindless bloodlust, perceived the small, cloaked figure of nothingness, a mere absence of reality, sneaking away with a silent, satisfied hum.
Next, Slaanesh. Aurelia recoiled, a wave of profound, sensory nausea washing over her as she approached the Palace of the Dark Prince. It was a cacophony of sensations, a discordant symphony of pleasure and pain, a maelstrom of a million conflicting spices assaulting her senses. Yet, she persevered. She would not unleash her full, purifying might; that would be too overt. Instead, with a subtle, almost surgical precision, she introduced a minor, yet utterly infuriating, affliction upon the Prince of Excess: a powerful, unceasing fit of hiccups. Slaanesh's endless, rapturous ecstasy, her grand feast of souls, was abruptly, and comically, interrupted by a series of spasming, undignified gasps. Aurelia, with a final, malicious twist, salted Slaanesh's senses, transforming every sensation into a bland, tasteless nothingness. The Dark Prince, deprived of all pleasure, all sensation, was left with only the ceaseless, infuriating torment of the hiccups. That, Aurelia mused, would keep him occupied for a while.
Finally, Papa Nurgle. The Grandfather was the easiest of all. Aurelia simply planted a single, perfect flower in the midst of his grotesque, decaying garden. It was a creation of pure, unblemished life, a beautiful, radiant blossom that would never decay, never wither, never die. It would remain there, a single, pristine dot of purity in Nurgle's grotesque masterpiece of rot and despair.
As Aurelia prepared to depart, to escape Papa Nurgle's inevitable, albeit slow-moving, rage, she noticed something in the deepest recesses of his mansion, a sight that gave her pause. A figure, shackled in a cage of rusted, weeping iron.
"The Mother… Isha."
Aurelia hummed to herself, a new, far more ambitious plan beginning to form in her mind. This, she knew, was a prize of immense value, a bargaining chip of unparalleled significance. The Aeldari, she was certain, would be profoundly grateful to have their long-lost goddess returned. But for such a grand gambit to unfold, she must first secure her meeting with the Aeldari, to establish a fragile, tentative trust.
And, she mused, there was one Aeldari God, one elusive, enigmatic figure, still at play: Cegorach.
"The Great Fool. The Laughing God. The one who tricked the C'tan into devouring each other. I have a profound feeling our paths will cross soon enough," she whispered, her consciousness beginning its retreat. In her wake, she could feel the rising tide of annoyance, of pure, impotent rage from the Chaos Gods as they slowly, inevitably, realised that a certain Princess had come to visit, leaving behind not destruction, but a trail of exquisitely crafted, infuriatingly trivial tricks.
"Well," Aurelia mused, a faint, almost imperceptible smile gracing her lips, "if he truly enjoys a good laugh, perhaps this… will be enough to finally get his attention."