Boom!
The final report of a bolt shell echoed through the ruins. Across the surface of The Rock, corpses lay in tangled, overlapping mounds.
Blood seeped into the earth, churning the soil into a black, visceral mire. Apothecaries hurried across the battlefield, performing triage amidst the carnage. Those Astartes whose wounds were not yet beyond the reach of the Emperor's mercy were carried away by their battle-brothers—destined, perhaps, for Rubicon surgery or the cold, eternal slumber of a Dreadnought sarcophagus. The Astra Militarum units that had made planetfall were no less occupied, tending to their own broken ranks.
The bodies of the fallen Space Marines were gathered with ritualistic somberness. Gene-seed was harvested, and power armor was reclaimed for the Chapter's armories, leaving the husks to be prepared for the final rites. Eventually, these remains, along with the recovered Progenoid Glands, would be returned to their respective Chapters.
Gazing upon the scorched and cratered vistas of the Fortress-Monastery, the mood of the survivors was leaden. The Dark Angels had been hit with a catastrophic blow. A vast number of newly trained neophytes had perished, and even veterans of the Inner Circle had fallen heroically under the relentless tide of the enemy.
Azrael led a procession toward the side of the Lion. Though they had confirmed his identity beyond doubt, deep suspicions regarding the Primarch's current state still gnawed at them.
Ten thousand years ago, Lion El'Jonson had vanished into myth. Now, he had returned, yet he traveled in the company of the Fallen, renegades whom the Chapter had hunted across the stars for millennia. Even though he had arrived at the precipice of ruin to lead them and save his progeny, the questions remained. Had he been tainted by the Warp? Did he harbor doubts about the Imperium? Had he, in some unthinkable way, betrayed the Emperor?
The eyes of the Inner Circle veterans burned with silent interrogation as they stared at their genetic progenitor, searching his ancient features for a sign of treachery.
The Lion let out a long, weary sigh before he spoke.
"I have led you through a thousand wars. We have fought for the future of humanity, for our honor, and for the sacred mission entrusted to us. My loyalty and my resolve have never wavered, not for a heartbeat. Reflect upon your own faith. Look upon the path I have trod and the sacrifices I have made. Set aside your doubts, follow in my footsteps, and fight once more for justice and the Light."
As the rebuke fell upon them, the veterans looked at the aged, weathered face before them and saw it overlap with the vibrant, golden memory of the Lion of old.
Supreme Grand Master Azrael was the first to act. He dropped to one knee, plunging the Sword of Secrets into the earth before him. Following his lead, the Dark Angels fell to their knees in a crashing wave of ceramite.
No matter what lingering suspicions remained in the stubborn, iron-clad heart of Asmodai, he offered no resistance. In the heat of the previous battle, though the Interrogator-Chaplain could barely track the Primarch's blurring movements, the glimpses he caught of that transcendent martial prowess were enough to break even his cynicism.
Asmodai spoke, his voice a muffled growl through his skull-masked helm.
"The scions of the Lion swear by blade and blood: our loyalty to the Imperium has never changed. In every battle, we are the vanguard; we fear no death. To safeguard the glory and peace of the Throne, we pay any price. We remember our mission; we maintain our discipline—a shield of iron for the Emperor's domains. No matter the hardship, our faith is adamantine. Loyalty to the Imperium is etched into our hearts and manifest in every strike we deal."
Lion El'Jonson looked upon his kneeling sons and the smoking ruins of their home with a complex swirl of emotions.
"I, Lion El'Jonson, am your Primarch. You are my sons. We are warriors bound by blood. I lead you as the Emperor led us. We shall fight side by side, for our strength is born of unity. Only as one can we overcome the greatest of foes. Never forget: your brothers stand beside you. Support one another. Trust one another. Strive together for our common cause!"
Guilliman stood nearby, his own expression unreadable. He had never imagined a day when his own sons would dare question him, yet here was his brother facing exactly that. The First Legion, he realized, was a wellspring of infinite complications.
To the side, Marshal Gheidon of the Black Templars had finished his assessment of Thien. Upon their return to the fleet, Gheidon intended to invest the initiate with the Black Sword and the Armor of Faith. From that moment on, Thien would cast aside his name. He would be known only by one title: The Emperor's Champion.
However, the birth of a new Champion was not enough to soothe Gheidon's ire toward the Dark Angels. With Lion El'Jonson himself present, Gheidon demanded an accounting for his fallen brothers. As a son of Rogal Dorn, Gheidon trusted that Guilliman would see justice done.
"Lord Guilliman, the Chaos fleet has been repelled, but the Dark Angels' fleet is currently locked in a standoff with our own ships."
A mortal guardsman stepped cautiously toward Guilliman. Surrounded by Primarchs and Astartes, the man looked as if he might collapse from the sheer pressure of their presence. Though he tried to keep his voice low to report privately, there was no one in that superhuman circle who did not hear every word.
Guilliman's brow twitched. He turned and, with a flash of uncharacteristic frustration, delivered a sharp kick to the Lion's greave.
Without a word, the Lord Regent turned on his heel and walked away in a huff. Dante, who had just returned, watched the exchange with a look of profound awkwardness.
The Lion shot a disgruntled glance at the newly-risen Azrael before turning his gaze toward Dante and Gheidon.
"You and your Chapters have witnessed things today that were never meant to be known. This is a burden the Dark Angels bear alone, a weight that governs many destinies. Understand this: should these secrets be whispered, the consequences would be beyond calculation. It would not merely threaten the honor of the Dark Angels, but could shake the very foundations of the Imperium itself."
The Lion stepped closer, his shadow looming large.
"I respect your courage and your fealty, but this matter is paramount. You must bury what you have seen and heard today in the deepest recesses of your souls. Reveal nothing to anyone. Do this for the stability of the Imperium and the future of untold lives. If this veil is ever torn, it will bring only endless calamity. Your Chapters have their own glory; the Dark Angels have their secrets. Let us keep to our respective paths. For the Emperor and the peace of his realm, keep this secret until the time is right, or forever. Do not let curiosity lead you into ruin. Some secrets are best left in the dark."
Dante, seasoned and wise, understood perfectly that the Lion was referring to the Fallen. Gheidon, however, stood there in a daze of confusion.
What secret? What happened? As far as he knew, he had simply followed the Lord Regent and the Ultramarines to help the Dark Angels win a war.
The Marshal, who had intended to demand answers and reparations, found himself led away by Dante in a state of bewildered compliance. He considered asking Dante if he understood the Primarch's meaning, but the weight of the Lion's warning checked his tongue. If I don't know, I don't know, he reasoned. Problems of that scale were for the Lord Regent to ponder; his duty was simply to offer loyalty and victory to the Emperor.
Meanwhile, Axion was already busy. Enthusiastic as ever, he led his contingent of guard-automata toward the heart of the Fortress-Monastery. He intended to secure an audience with the Lion, and, ideally, gain entry to the Chapter's archives. According to the data-slugs within Cawl's sub-procedural shadows, the library of The Rock held a repository of knowledge second only to the Great Archives of Terra itself.