When the Lion reappeared, there was another person beside him.

  Dante experienced no weightlessness of teleportation or blinding white light. He only felt the air being silently pushed aside, a wind carrying the scent of pine and wet earth lingering on the bridge for a moment, then dissipating. The forest did not truly appear; it just briefly "existed."

  The bridge of the Hearthfire was distinctly different from common Imperial warships. There were no icons or banners, no servitors whispering prayers. The space was wide and quiet, several mechanical arms gliding high above, light shifting between grey-white and pale blue. The entire bridge was like a giant thinking space, not a religious altar.

  Vulkan stood on the central ptform.

  He wore no power armor, just a simple artisan's robe, his bare upper body covered in coal-bck skin, traces of old wounds extending quietly across his shoulders and chest. Those were not battle scars for show, but marks left by long years. His eyes burned steadily in faint red light; when looking at the comer, there was no pressure, nor scrutiny, only lucid focus.

  The three looked at each other for a moment.

  No decration of identity, no military salute. It was not a ck of etiquette, but a ck of necessity.

  The Lion's hand naturally left his sword hilt. The movement was almost imperceptible, but Dante saw it clearly. That was an acknowledgement, and also a reassurance.

  Vulkan's gaze nded on Dante, staying only for an instant, then nodded slightly. The movement was extremely light, yet it let Dante understand he was not summoned for trial, but permitted to stand here to witness everything that followed.

  The Lion spoke first.

  "Is the road paved, brother?"

  His tone was steady, without urgency, nor the anxiety of question, as if confirming a matter agreed upon long ago.

  Vulkan turned, the tactical dispy unfolding in mid-air. The rift spanning the gaxy appeared in dark light and shadow. Three Blood Angels Strike Cruisers were fixed within giant structures, hulls still, like being embedded into a rger frame.

  Vulkan offered no long expnation, merely saying: "Stabilized."

  The curves dispyed on the screen tended toward ftness, originally chaotic fluctuations gradually converging. Those three ships were not swallowed, nor torn apart; they were simply fixed in a new position, bearing pressure, simultaneously sharing pressure.

  Dante finally understood.

  This was not sacrifice. This was conversion.

  Warships originally used to guard the fnks now became nodes supporting the rift. They were no longer responsible for attack or defense, but responsible for allowing something greater to happen.

  The Lion and Vulkan exchanged a look. It was not discussion, but like mutually confirming the same calcution was complete.

  Outside the bridge, the lead-grey fleet aligned quietly in the void. No horns, no announcements. They just waited.

  Dante looked at that rift, a thought held for a long time in his heart quietly overturned. He once thought guarding Baal was the entirety of the war, thought resisting invasion was the meaning of victory. Yet at this moment, he realized the true battlefield is not always where the enemy is, but before those cracks sufficient to unbance the entire gaxy.

  "What next?" he finally asked.

  Vulkan looked at that massive wound, voice low and steady.

  "Next, we walk across."

  That was not boasting, nor provocation. Just a statement.

  The light inside Hearthfire did not change, mechanical arms still operating on set tracks, the entire space acting as if nothing happened. Yet Dante knew clearly, once the fleet began to move, the state of the gaxy would no longer remain the same.

  No oaths. Only direction. And that direction pointed deep into the rift.