After the Crimson Council concluded, Dante finalized the logistics of the coming storm.
Based on the projected velocity of Hive Fleet Leviathan, a primary defensive line was established beyond the breached Bastion Ring. The worlds of Iksoi, Lesios, and Tartaros were designated as anchor-points—fortified bastions that would serve as the anvil against which the xenos tide would break.
General Melone Drost, commanding thirty million elite Cadian Shock Troops redeployed from surrounding warzones, moved to bolster the front alongside a Vostroyan Firstborn Armored Regiment.
More than a hundred Chapters of the Blood Angels' line were dispersed across the entire Hades Sector. They formed thousands of small, mobile outposts—scattered like blood-red petals by the hand of the Angel. Even if the Hive Fleet intended to root them out one by one, the sheer tenacity of the Adeptus Astartes would buy the Imperium at least a month of precious time.
The sons of Sanguinius understood their grim purpose: they were the price of time. They would pay for every hour of delay with their own lives.
During this month, Emrys was tasked with the impossible: stripping the sector of its industrial heart, its strategic minerals, and its teeming billions. Every ship filled with refugees was a seed for the long, attritional war that was to follow. Meanwhile, on Baal, Dante would oversee the construction of a second 'Crimson Line,' preparing for the inevitable moment the Hades Shield finally buckled.
Standing upon the desolate sands of Baal outside the Chapter Monastery, Emrys watched as the Blood Angels boarded their Thunderhawk gunships. They flew into the void without hesitation, embracing their martyrdom with a stoicism that left his heart heavy.
The plan was his. The cost, however, was being paid in transhuman blood.
"You should depart as well," Dante said from beside him, his golden mask reflecting the harsh Baalite sun. "I hope you do not let their sacrifice be in vain."
A single strategy had sent tens of millions of warriors to their deaths. In the purgatory of the 41st Millennium, this was merely another Tuesday.
Emrys took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, and nodded solemnly. "I will fulfill my promise, Lord Dante. You have my word."
"Good." Dante gestured to a group of warriors standing nearby.
A dozen Space Marines in resplendent golden artificer armor stepped forward. Their jump packs were adorned with pure white wings, and their faces were hidden behind the ornate, screaming Death Masks of Sanguinius. On their brows sat the triple-drop of blood, and one held aloft a Great Banner that shimmered with ancient power.
"They are the Sanguinary Guard—my own elite," Dante said, his voice grave. "I entrust them to you. Should you encounter resistance from the planetary governors or the high nobility during the evacuations, they will act as my voice. To look upon the Sanguinary Guard is to look upon me."
Emrys stared, his mouth slightly agape. To have the Sanguinary Guard and the Chapter Banner at his side was a political weapon of absolute power. Dante knew that the planetary lords and merchant princes would surely resist the 'scorched earth' policy. But no noble, no matter how powerful, would dare defy the personal guard of the Regent of Imperium Nihilus.
"Lord Dante," Emrys stammered, "you are giving your own guard to me? What of your own safety?"
Dante's vox-grille emitted a short, cold sound that might have been a laugh. "I am on Baal, the home of my father. What could happen here that I cannot handle? Worry for yourself, Rogue Trader. The void is less forgiving than I am."
Emrys swallowed hard. He had seen the records; Dante had slain Hive Tyrants and Daemons alike. His concern was indeed misplaced.
As he turned to leave, Emrys hesitated. "Lord Dante... may I ask? What did you and the Apostle of War discuss?"
Dante's attitude had shifted drastically after his private audience with Morgana. Before that meeting, he had been skeptical. Afterward, he had handed Emrys the keys to the sector.
"You wish to know?" Dante asked, looking at him with a weary intensity.
"If it is permitted," Emrys replied.
"I asked the Apostle when I could finally find peace," Dante said softly. "I asked when I could lay down this burden that has suffocated me for fifteen centuries. I asked when I might finally be allowed to die and return to my Father's side."
The profound exhaustion emanating from the Chapter Master was palpable. He had served the Emperor for longer than almost any living soul. He had seen every friend and comrade fall, while he remained—the eternal sentinel, the tired legend. He longed for the liberation of the grave.
"And her answer?" Emrys whispered.
"The Apostle told me that my mission is not yet complete. She told me that the Golden One still has work for me in the realm of mortals."
A hint of sorrow flickered in Dante's eyes.
The Emperor is a ruthless taskmaster, Emrys thought, feeling a wave of pity for the old warrior. He's going to work Dante to the bone. He knew that soon, Guilliman would arrive and cross the Rubicon Primaris with Dante, essentially signing him up for another thousand years of overtime. Death was no escape in the service of the Throne; even the fallen were sometimes forced back into the fight as Legion of the Damned.
"Wait, Lord Dante," Emrys realized, "you still haven't explained why you changed your mind about my plan."
Dante smiled—a mysterious, knowing expression. "That answer is for you to find, Emrys. It lies in the Segmentum Obscurus. When you find the place of the 'Covenant,' you will understand everything."
The Covenant again.
Emrys felt a headache forming. His ancestor's disappearance, the Emperor's final secret, and an oath sworn ten thousand years ago on the steps of the Imperial Palace—it was all converging on him. He wasn't just a Rogue Trader anymore; he was a piece on a chessboard he didn't yet understand.