The hatch slammed shut behind them, the echo trailing down the corridor like the final word in a long, bitter sermon. Kade and Koron moved in silence for a few paces, the heavy footfalls of soft boots and clawed feet tapping against the deck like a mismatched metronome.

  Koron glanced up, expression unreadable behind the drone’s smooth optic. “You good?”

  Kade turned slightly. “I am. Considering Orvek could have demanded a binding oath, a trial by fire, or stripped Ira from my armor permanently, being sentenced to penitent duties is... merciful.”

  Koron gave a soft, dry chuckle. “Want me to loan you a few drones to scrub bulkheads with you? I’ve got a couple who’d consider it a promotion.”

  Kade reached out, giving the Sentinel drone’s skull a light tap with his knuckles. “That would defeat the point. And likely make the Captain's eye twitch.”

  “Fair.” Koron tilted in the air. “Still, better getting it all out in the open?”

  Kade’s voice was quieter now, reverent. “Yes. The wound is cleansed. Healing can begin.” He drew in a deep breath—three lungs expanding to full capacity—then slowly exhaled, like a forge cooling after the bellows. “A weight lifted.”

  Koron’s gait shifted as he matched stride with the Astartes. “So what's next? New squad assignment?”

  “Yes. Tiron has been promoted to sergeant. He is... capable.” He paused, recalling what he knew of the younger Astartes. “He has wisdom beyond his years.”

  “And how’s he going to feel about you walking in with a personal AI and a drone entourage?” Koron asked, the claws of his feet clinking softly with each step.

  “Ira remains with me, per the Captains orders. As for the drones—Orvek intends to classify them as servitors, under your command. Not under Sasha or Lucia.”

  “Clever loophole,” Koron muttered.

  “It is technically doctrine compatible.”

  They turned a corner, and the traffic in the corridor ahead parted instinctively—mortal crew scurrying to the edges like minnows before a predator. Some averted their eyes. Others bowed. None dared impede the passage of a giant.

  Koron whistled low. “You know, I should walk with you more often. You’re like an express lane through human traffic.”

  Kade’s shoulders shifted ever so slightly, the smirk just as small.

  “So, what’s on the rest of your agenda for today?”

  “Armor maintenance. Loadout checks. Prayers.” He paused. “And then I scrub decks.”

  Koron’s optics brightened slightly. “Ah yes. The sacred rites of penitent mop-fu.”

  Kade sighed. “Do not make me regret being honest.”

  “You won’t,” Koron said, grinning. “But I will make fun of you the whole time.”

  -

  The door hissed open on a breath of sterilized air and incense, and the threshold to Karthis-Omnis’s sanctum yawned wide. No guards flanked the entrance—none were needed. The room itself watched.

  It was dim. Not in the way of shadows or neglect, but the way of deliberate focus. Light pulsed in steady beats from the ceiling, soft crimson and spectral blue, like the breathing of some slumbering beast. The walls were clad in polished gunmetal, etched with a dense weave of micro-hexes and drifting data-runes that shimmered and shifted just out of phase with reality. Even the silence here had a rhythm, as though coded with some forgotten language of the Machine God.

  The hum came next—faint at first, then undeniable. A low, subterranean resonance that sank into the bones. It came from the floor, the walls, the very air. There was computation happening here. Thought, too fast and too vast for any human mind to follow, but still present—a ghostly intelligence that loomed like a tidal pressure behind the eyes.

  In the center of the room hung the Cognition Throne.

  It did not sit on the floor, but hovered above a dais of inscribed iron, suspended by a web of servo-arms and gyroscopic dampers. A glowing halo of mechadendrites bloomed from its spine, twitching faintly in patterns of dormant awareness. Above it spun a constellation of lens-clusters and holographic emitters, splaying data across the chamber in delicate, ever-shifting geometries. The throne had no seat in the traditional sense—it was an interface, a union, a throne only for those who no longer needed flesh.

  To the left, a surgical slab bore the half-dissected remains of a Necron gauss flayer. Its components were laid out like relics in a reliquary, some tagged in High Gothic, others in a sigil-script so ancient it predated Mars itself. Along the back wall, several servo-skulls hung dormant in magnetic cradles. One still wept faint traces of incense oil from its ocular socket.

  In the far corner stood a crude, almost primitive altar. A cog, pitted with age and laced with corroded gold filament, rested atop a stone block slick with consecrated machine-oil. A smear of sacramental paste still gleamed fresh beneath it. If the rest of the chamber was a cathedral of logic, this corner was a shrine of superstition—perhaps even guilt.

  A single dust covered bottle sits next to a single picture frame that rested behind a slab of quartzite armorglass. An image, preserved with unsettling clarity, depicted a younger Karthis in flesh and blood—stern but not yet ironbound—standing beside a man with mismatched augmetics and tired eyes. No label. No date. Just memory, preserved and bolted in place as if to say: This mattered.

  The scent of ozone hung in the air, blended with the acrid perfume of burnt copper and filtered oils. Deeper still, one could catch the ghost of myrrh and ash—litanies burned into the very air. Faint whispers echoed through recessed speaker grilles. Not voices, but binharic prayer loops, endlessly repeating a chant no longer heard by ears, only circuits.

  This was not a living space. It was not an office. It was not even a laboratory.

  It was a thought, crystallized in iron and code. A place where faith was measured in data, and heresy in curiosity. And somewhere—beneath it all—a mind moved, vast and whispering, too old and too far gone to be called human anymore.

  Karthis lay in its center, his true body still wrapped in a medicae capsule, clear fluid leaving his broken form floating free of the confines of gravity, delicate machine arms slowly stitching him back together after the angel had crushed him.

  At the doors opening, the servo-skull turned to look, seeing a trio of the wolven Sentinels entering. One stopped near the edge of the room, staring at the floating skull, as the other two took up guard posts near its back.

  “I’ll make this clear:” Koron began, his voice carefully neutral. “I’m only here because Tavos asked me to. If this is going to be another five minutes of you demanding my knowledge or insulting me, I will just leave.”

  Without preamble, Karthis replied, biharic cant reverberating in the space..

  +You delivered a device to Brother Kade months ago. Cylindrical. Black alloy. No ports. No seams. Still active.+

  Koron tilted his head slightly. “The battery.”

  +That word is insufficient.+ Karthis’s voice was neither reprimand nor insult, but it vibrated with tension. +It is not a battery. It has no known storage medium, yet it produces power. No visible intake, yet it remains stable. It has not degraded. It has not fluctuated.+

  He leaned forward, optics clicking. +It does not comply with reality.+

  The blue eyes narrowed. “So you just want me to tell you the answers.”

  +Incorrect.+ Karthis replied, the skull drifting down. +I wish to know the starting point. Where do I begin?+

  For a moment, Karthis suspected he might have surprised the mind on the far end of the conversation.

  “…Coherence theory,” he said at last.

  Karthis did not move—but everything in the room did.

  The lights pulsed, just once. The hymnals skipped a syllable. Even the data-tapes hiccuped as Karthis processed the phrase. Somewhere within his mind, a thousand dormant threads of theory sparked to life and began weaving a tapestry.

  +That is…+ he began, halting for the first time in a long while. +A concept of internal energetic alignment. Suppressed. Discredited. Labeled… impractical.+

  Koron shrugged, glancing around at the cathedral-machine.

  “Most good ideas are. But if you’re asking where to start… then that’s it. Balance before power. Agreement before acceleration. Every part playing the same song.”

  +This… will take time.+ Karthis said. Not an objection. Not hesitation. A promise.

  “Wouldn’t be worth much if it didn’t,” Koron replied, turning toward the drone.

  +Why tell me this? I expected rejection. Null answer. Falsification. Contempt.+

  One metal eyebrow rose. “Because you asked instead of demanded. You sought a starting point at the base, not the summit without effort. I can respect that much at least.”

  The servo-skull titled slightly, perhaps a nod. +Still a heretic.+

  “Fuck you too.”

  -

  “Review.” He said once more, staring at the stream of data that the massive hololith displayed. Around him stood the holographic displays of the commanders, each at the ready for their part.

  Marshal Hektor Valerian was a slab of walking faith, his relic armor thunderous with every step. Midnight-black and edged in scorched silver, it wore centuries of parchment seals and scorched purity texts like a priest wore vestments. His left pauldron bore the Sigismundic Cross—worn by almost all the Black Templars, but for Sword Brothers? It often marked those who had killed their way into legend.

  His helm, shaped like a faceless crusader’s mask, never came off. Not for allies. Not for anyone.

  Valerian stood behind his place at the table like a statue of vengeance carved from the ruins of some forgotten chapel.

  The other presence was quieter, but no less arresting.

  Thalen Veyl moved like a rumor. Power armor in mottled green and gray flickered with holographic static, making him ripple against the war room’s lighting like a mirage in a forest. His right pauldron bore a squad designation long since scratched out—deliberately and without explanation.

  He said nothing as he looked to the others, and for a moment, one could be forgiven for thinking the shadows had decided to join the council.

  His helmet—when he wore it—was shaped like a falcon’s skull, all beak and predator’s silence. But now, he sat bare-faced, unscarred and handsome, like someone the galaxy hadn’t gotten around to ruining.

  Yet.

  The war room's lumen arrays hummed low and red, casting deep shadows across steel-bolted walls and the broad, angular table at the chamber’s heart. Around it stood figures made of light—Varn, Orvek, and Ferox—each occupying a different arc of the table’s edge like anchor stones.

  Between the shimmering visages, ghostly servo-skulls flitted by—each occasionally appearing half-formed in the air as they delivered slates, whispered binharic prayers, or offered up glowing vox-keys to unseen hands.

  “Eighty-six ships,” Orvek began, his voice steady but dry, “are three days from Vigilus, my lord.” With a flick of his fingers, a constellation of symbols shimmered above the table: glowing red for hostile, blue for allied, and a morass of shifting grey for the unknown. “Confirmed contacts include Vengeful Spirit and Endurance. Alongside those: four additional battleship-class hulls, three carriers, three heavy cruisers, thirty standard cruisers, forty escorts and support vessels, and at least four demon engines.”

  He tapped the projection, and their malformed silhouettes writhed unnaturally as if aware they were being observed.

  Guilliman’s image leaned slightly forward, casting a faint shadow on the table. “Enemy ground forces?”

  “Assuming full commitment?” Varn’s voice clicked mechanically as his rebreather cycled and his augmetic eyes narrowed. “Twelve thousand Black Legion traitors. Eight to ten thousand from the Death Guard, depending on how many of their plague hulks are functional. An estimated eight million mortal cultists.” He paused, one bionic finger raised. “Plus war machines of unknown class and number.” Varn’s vox-filter hissed faintly. “And an unknown number of demons, naturally.”

  The word demons lingered for just a second too long in the air.

  “These are projections,” he added. “Derived from prior engagements and behavioral analysis. They could deploy more… or be holding some back.”

  “Understood.” Guilliman tapped the Vigilius symbol hovering before him, and the planetary overlay pulsed in response. “What of our own forces?”

  Marshal Hektor Valerian, encased in blackened relic plate etched with silver filigree, answered without ceremony. His helm remained on, voice echoing like distant thunder. “The Imperial Fists, Iron Hands, Space Wolves, and White Scars are already in position. A dozen minor successor chapters have joined them, per your request. Local Skitarii legions and Sisters Militant battalions are entrenched in grid sectors Sigma through Theta. The planet’s STC-derived void shield arrays are active—still being ‘approved,’ of course.”

  His helm turned just slightly toward Varn, whose mechanical eyes twitched with what might have been amusement.

  Hektor continued, “The planetary defense force and Astra Militarum regiments are dug in. Factoring in our presence, the total Astartes count sits just over nine thousand.”

  The chamber held a moment of stillness, broken only by the faint chime of shifting data.

  “Two to one against us,” Guilliman said, quietly.

  Hektor gave a soft, sardonic chuckle. “Then it’s an even fight, my lord.”

  For just a moment, fleeting and rare, something passed over the lips of every Space Marine present—be they real or rendered in light. A ghost of a smile. A memory of battles past. Brotherhood.

  Guilliman allowed it.

  “Still,” he said, voice regaining steel, “the battle in orbit will be measured in inches. Against either the Vengeful Spirit or the Endurance, I’d back the old girl.” He ran a hand across the hololith, a moment of tenderness to his ship. “However, against both?” He shook his head faintly. “She would not survive.”

  Varn nodded, folding a mechadendrite across his chest as another tapped a dataslate. “Our Ark Mechanicus vessels will help level the scales. But of the two Gloriana-class ships… which would you strike first, my lord?”

  There was no hesitation.

  “The Spirit,” Guilliman said. His eyes glinted like the edge of a blade unsheathed. “I’ll burn that bastard from the black.”

  The chamber dimmed as the orbital map of Vigilus pulsed to life, casting icy blue light across the faces gathered around the hololith table. Steam hissed softly from overhead vents, mingling with the scent of machine oil and ozone—an olfactory signature of war in the making.

  “Main defensive focuses are likely to be these,” Thalen said, stepping forward into the ghostlight. With a flick of his gauntleted hand, several zones flared red across the map. “Storvhal—massive geothermal output. It's the planet’s primary power source. Volcanic. Unstable. It’ll feel like home for your brothers, Captain Orvek.”

  The heat in his voice wasn’t just metaphor. Even through projection, the data revealed columns of smoke, rivers of magma, and the tectonic chasm-cracks that seared the earth like claw marks.

  Orvek studied the glowing topography with a practiced eye, his voice low and deliberate. “I concur. Few approaches. Predictable funnels. The shifting terrain will slow them… and quicken us.”

  He looked up at Guilliman, the volcanic glow reflected in his pupils. “Full company deployment, my lord?”

  Guilliman inclined his head. His tone, precise and final: “Indeed. You’ll have three Guard regiments in support, two companies of Sisters Militant and a legion of Skitarii to hold the flanks.”

  Orvek gave a small nod—more to himself than anyone else—as his gaze returned to Storvhal. The war had already begun in his mind. Defensive lines. Meltaguns at chokepoints. Promethean fury where the enemy would never expect it.

  New coordinates lit the map—four brilliant azure markers now shone across the northern hives.

  “Hyperia and Hivesprawl Oteck,” Guilliman continued. “The primary sources of water and civilian infrastructure. I’ve assigned the Fists and Iron Hands to both. Four battalions of Sisters and two Skitarii legions will reinforce them. Eight regiments of Guardsmen to anchor the line.”

  Hektor’s helm tilted slightly, the light catching on the edges of his relic plate. Guilliman turned his gaze toward him.

  “My Fenrisian nephews will run beside your brothers, Captain Hektor. Between you, the largest companies we field. You’ll serve as the blade—quick reaction, maximum force.”

  Hektor gave a nod like a shifting glacier. A deep, resonant growl of approval stirred from his chest—wordless, but understood by all.

  “And my brothers?” Thalen asked, his arms crossed loosely, though nothing about his posture was relaxed.

  Guilliman’s lips tugged at the corner. It wasn’t quite a smile—more the ghost of one. “You and the White Scars? You two shall have complete operational freedom. Use it to get into their backline, and perform one objective.”

  A pause. A beat. Then:

  “Hurt them. However you see fit, for as long as you can.”

  Thalen’s answering smile was thin, sharp, and dangerous. It did not reach his eyes, but it didn’t need to. It gleamed like a monomolecular blade drawn in the dark.

  -

  As the meeting concluded, Guilliman took a slow breath, then turned to his Victrix Guard.

  “Dibus. Macullus. Give me the room.”

  The two towering Astartes exchanged a glance. For a moment, they didn’t move—stone statues weighing command against instinct. Then, with synchronized nods, they turned and sealed the chamber behind them. The thick doors hissed shut, leaving silence in their wake.

  The war map faded, but the weight of command clung to his shoulders like a second mantle. Silence followed, deep and deliberate. Guilliman exhaled. Closed his eyes. Counted to ten.

  Then he opened them and looked toward the ceiling—specifically, the ventilation grate above the far alcove.

  “Come out, Koron. I know you’re there.”

  Six seconds of silence. Then a soft shimmer, like heat rising off a sunbaked road. A small teardrop-shaped drone uncloaked, slipped through the grate, and descended on whisper-discs.

  “How did you know?” the drone asked.

  Guilliman smiled—actually smiled. Not the tight, political one he wore like armor, but something that reached the corners of his mouth.

  “This is my ship,” he said. “I know the pulse of her reactor cores. The hum of the deck beneath my boots. The frequency of the void shields. The airflow pattern was skewed—barely a degree off the programmed vector. But this ship hums a tune I know by heart.”

  “A fair point.” Koron replied, setting the Prometheus drone down onto the edge of the table, a little manipulator arm reaching out to tap at the display. “Your outnumbered. Pretty bad too.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  He arched a blonde eyebrow. “You came to discuss the tactical situation?”

  “No, just to observe, maybe help if I could, but I have little hope I would see something you or your generals would miss.”

  “You could have just asked to join.”

  The drone turned to face Guilliman at that. “Now…that is a surprising gesture.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m not one of your generals, and I would likely be rather sarcastic and irreverent. Add in that any of my input would likely be viewed as heretical? Such a person is not helpful towards a military command structure.”

  “True, but I suspect you would curb it to some degree.”

  The drone shrugged. “Again, a fair point.”

  Guilliman tapped the hologram, backing out into a view of Vigilius itself. “So, what are your thoughts then? My foes will reach the planet three days before we do.”

  “Depends. Do you think you can win the spacebattle? Without that, ground battles won’t mean a damn thing.”

  “We will be mostly evenly matched, barring a few ships. The flagships will be the main deciding factor. If the Ark’s had not arrived…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “In any case, I do not suppose you have come to deliver the new shields you mentioned?”

  “No, sorry. Even if I did, your ships wouldn’t be able to produce the proper machinery to use them. I thought I could combine your void shields and my aegis shields with the materials on hand, but I’ll need specialized equipment and time to test. Which, of course, we don’t have.”

  Nodding, Guilliman sighed as he stood. “Very well. Do what you can then. Is there anything else?”

  “Two things:” The drone replied as it lifted off the table. “Just wanted to give a heads up that the Salamanders have agreed to field test some of my other drone designs into their combat doctrines. Small numbers, but might bolster them.”

  Guilliman’s blue eyes narrowed. “You realize that their position is tenuous. Any further infractions could be dire.”

  “I do, which is why I’m keeping it to just their forces, and slapping a coat of martian red and a cogskull onto the designs. I’m informing Varn of it as well, just to help ease any tensions before the fight.”

  -

  Varn clicked open the file that carried Ferox’s authorization codes, optics narrowing as he studied the diagrams of the listed drones.

  “Oh what the fu-“

  -

  “He should be having either another bluescreen or a religious awakening any second now.”

  Guilliman grunted. “And these drones?”

  “Support units, mostly. I’ve sent the files to your slate—let me know if any are useful elsewhere. I’ll stay out of other active warzones unless I get your explicit go-ahead. Not looking to trigger a schism mid-firefight.”

  “That’s… surprisingly respectful of you.”

  “Hey, I can be respectful. I just tend to return like with like, that’s all.”

  As the Primarch turned toward the door, the drone floated along beside him at head height. Guilliman glanced sidelong at it.

  “Are you following me?”

  “Of course. Still lots to talk about.”

  “You said you had little to contribute tactically.”

  “Correct. This is the ‘getting to know you’ phase.”

  He stopped. Looked at the tiny gunmetal-grey drone.

  “And what does that entail?”

  “Whatever you’d like. Game of twenty questions is a classic.”

  “You want to play games,” he said slowly, “while the rest of us prepare for war?”

  The voice that answered was light, but edged in unshakable calm.

  “No. I want to use the time between wars to learn more about the man I may be forced to entrust with my friends’ lives… and perhaps with the knowledge I carry.”

  Guilliman’s eyes narrowed, glacial fire beneath a pale brow. “So. More tests.”

  “Yup,” the voice replied cheerfully. “Though this time, it’s mutual. I get to see how your brain works and—”

  “—and I, in turn, yours.”

  “Correctamundo.”

  Guilliman didn’t blink. For a long moment, silence stretched like a bowstring. Then, with the faintest nod, he relented. “Very well. I did say we should speak more. But while others are present, remain silent. There’s no sense causing additional tension.”

  “Not a worry,” came the smug reply. “Look at me—silent as a grave.”

  Guilliman shook his head, already moving to the door. “For about ten seconds, by my guess.”

  The heavy adamantine doors parted with a hydraulic hiss. His guards, gold-clad and grim, straightened as their Primarch passed.

  “My lord,” Macullus murmured, glancing to his flank, “is that—”

  “One of the vestiges drones, yes,” Guilliman cut in. “Pay it no mind unless it attempts to harm myself or others.”

  Both guards nodded, though their eyes never quite left the small, sleek drone that glided beside the Primarch’s shoulder like a loyal ghost, its optics silent but watchful.

  Several hours went by as Guilliman went about his tasks. The day unfolded like a thunderhead, dense with duties.

  Guilliman moved from chamber to chamber, attending to the Imperium's unceasing tangle of responsibilities: doctrinal sparring between the Ecclesiarchy and Mechanicus, Inquisitorial “requests” soaked in veiled threats, Guard generals groaning for reinforcements, fuel, boots, and recaf.

  Each discussion layered with fleet updates—warp-drift projections, fallback vectors, escort formations, and worst-case scenarios modeled in exhaustive detail. His mind moved like a data engine in overdrive, calculating, absorbing, reacting.

  Through it all, the drone remained at his shoulder, silent as promised. Watching. Learning.

  As ever, the worst problem was always everyone else.

  The Black Templars and the Space Wolves looked good on paper: two furious, close-range shock units capable of tearing enemy lines apart.

  In practice? They were powder kegs—vicious, proud, and barely able to share a corridor, let alone a battlezone. He’d spent two hours drafting boundary guidelines, rules of engagement, and a polite reminder that the enemy was not each other.

  The Iron Hands and Imperial Fists were siege masters. Together, they were the perfect anvil for the Black Legion and Death Guard to break themselves against.

  They were also, unfortunately, as flexible as granite, and doctrinally incompatible in all but function. One trusted in endurance. The other, in deletion.

  Still, if there was one thing that could unite them—it was the Black Legion.

  The Successor Chapters—Crimson Fists, Fire Lords, Brazen Claws, Hawk Lords, Silvered Blades, Storm Reapers and more—were harder to predict. He assigned them close to their parent chapters and hoped legacy would keep them in line.

  Only two Chapters required no oversight at all:

  The White Scars and the Raptors.

  They thrived on autonomy, on open flanks and dark corridors. If left to their own rhythms, they would stalk through the enemy like storm winds made of razor blades. Together, he suspected, they might become the deadliest force on the planet.

  He allowed himself that single, sharp hope.

  -

  Earlier that day, in a discussion with a delegation of Guard colonels, someone had questioned the feasibility of establishing fallback trenches across a northern ridge for the Salamanders defense lines.

  Before Guilliman could respond, the drone had pulsed a quiet tone over his private vox-link:

  “Not a good idea. The tectonic flexure across that ridge exceeds safe tolerances. If the traitors start bombarding that area, that whole shelf will collapse. I recommend shifting three miles east. You get a slightly worse firing angle, but a lot less lava.”

  Guilliman hadn’t even turned to look at the drone as he pulled up the geological maps to confirm the problem. He nodded once, and spoken the drones suggestion, and the colonels adjusted their maps.

  Four hours, Guilliman thought, and only when the Salamanders were on the line. I suppose that’s something.

  He wondered, sometimes, if this was how the Emperor had felt—surrounded not by incompetence, but by a dozen almost brilliant minds, all standing in the shadow of something older, quieter.

  The difference was that the Emperor had made such minds. Guilliman had merely inherited one.

  If Koron was truly from the Dark Age—if his knowledge ran as deep as suspected—then Guilliman wasn’t dealing with a man.

  He was dealing with a time capsule. A survivor. A weaponized past wrapped in metal and wit.

  And yet… the drone beside him said nothing. It only observed.

  I can’t decide if he’s holding back because he’s cautious… or because he’s kind.

  And that, more than anything else, was what unsettled Guilliman.

  Because if he couldn’t tell?

  Then neither could anyone else.

  -

  The hololiths had gone dim. The last of the servitors had trundled out. Guilliman stood alone—or nearly so—arms crossed as he stared down at the slowly rotating image of Vigilus, caught in the thrall of red runes and threat arcs.

  The drone hovered nearby. Quiet. Patient.

  He didn't look at it when he spoke.

  "All right. You mentioned a game."

  A brief pause. Then the drone tilted ever so slightly, as if raising its brow.

  “Twenty questions?”

  Guilliman nodded once. “You said you wished to learn. Let’s begin.”

  “You wanna go first, or shall I?”

  He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he stepped around his chair, grasped the backrest, and turned it with a smooth motion before settling into the massive, throne-like seat. It groaned faintly under the weight of ceramite and responsibility. Reclining slightly, he steepled his fingers.

  “Do you believe in fate… or simply probability?”

  Koron’s drone paused, mechanical limbs folding as if in mock contemplation. “Straight for the metaphysics, huh? No warm-up, no dinner first?”

  The tiny arms scratched at the underside of the chassis. “Fate’s a bit too… spiritual for me. Too much implied divinity, not enough verifiable data. Probability? Sure. But not as something to believe in. It's just another tool.”

  One manipulator snapped its tiny fingers with a metallic twing. “Alright. Recaf or tea?”

  Guilliman blinked. “...What?”

  “Hey, critical question. Got to know if I’m dealing with a pragmatist or a closet masochist.”

  His expression twitched. It might have been a smile. “Recaf. I recall you mentioned sharing a taste for it.”

  “Oh, I do. Many praises be unto the blessed coffee pot—long may it boil.”

  “…I assume that was in jest.”

  “Yes. And also, no. I probably owe my survival at the academy to one very overworked, very abused coffee machine. I figured it earned a bit of gratitude.”

  Guilliman nodded once, then aimed the next question like a bolt. “Do you believe in god—or gods?”

  “Damn, going straight for the soul-scouring questions today, huh?” Koron muttered. “Alright. Honest answer? I don’t know.”

  He drifted a moment in silence before continuing. “Back in my time, everyone had their own way. Faith was around, sure. Still had debates, still had arguments—hell, still had the occasional barstool-to-the-face attempts—but it wasn’t… weaponized like it is now. People mostly got along.”

  There was a pause. A softer tone followed.

  “My sister, Jen—she was a preacher. Devout, but not preachy. The kind of person who listened more than she spoke.”

  Guilliman’s voice dropped, contemplative. “And what would she think of the Ecclesiarchy?”

  Koron didn’t hesitate. “That they’ve lost the forest for the trees. And then set the forest on fire to light a cathedral.”

  Then the drone’s arms crossed under its frame. His voice pulsed in mock cheer. “My turn. What's your favorite smell?”

  Guilliman blinked again.

  “...That’s your follow-up?”

  “Yep. And I’ll be judging you based on it.”

  The Primarch gave a slow exhale. His fingers briefly tapped the side of his chair. “Wild citrus.” he said at last. “There was a forest near the summer palace. I used to walk there and sleep in the groves, back on Macragge.”

  The drone tilted its body, softly. “That’s a good answer.”

  Guilliman looked back, a trace of warmth behind the steel. “You’re not what I expected.”

  “Good. Expectations are just probability’s lazy cousin.”

  “What do you fear?”

  “Oh boy, there’s just a list.”

  “Is that your honest answer?”

  “Yup. I have a lot of things that scare me. Little things? The deep ocean and spiders. Big things? Letting them down.”

  “Dusthaven? Or the Brandts?”

  There was a pause. Longer than expected.

  “…Both.”

  “If you had to choose—only one—who would you save?”

  “Woah now, that’s a separate question,” Koron said quickly. “And also, I hate the trolley problem.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s an old philosophical thought exercise: a train is speeding toward five people tied to the tracks. You can pull a lever to switch it—but on the other track is a baby. Who do you save?”

  Guilliman’s brow furrowed. “…Is this a real scenario people debated?”

  “Oh, constantly. People love to argue about disasters from the comfort of not being in one.”

  Guilliman’s gaze dropped to the floor. A silence stretched between them, taut and thoughtful.

  “I hate this question.”

  His voice was quieter now. Not softer—just heavier.

  “It is the Imperium distilled. Every decision I make kills thousands… to save millions.”

  He looked up, eyes sharp with burden. “I do not choose who lives or dies lightly. But I will choose. I must. Because hesitation costs more lives than any mistake ever will.”

  He paused.

  “So—my answer is this: You save those who can still save others. A child holds future potential, yes. But five adults can carry the child’s world on their shoulders.”

  A flicker of dry humor touched the edge of his mouth.

  “That said… in reality? I’d simply knock the train off the rails.”

  The drone rotated slowly, its little manipulator arm tapping its side like a drumbeat. “So your answer is: punch the problem in the face, derail the trolley, rescue everyone, interrogate whoever tied them down, and then file a report so it doesn’t happen again?”

  Guilliman contemplated that for a moment. “…That is… broadly accurate.”

  Koron let out a low chuckle. “And here I thought I was the only one allergic to moral dilemmas.”

  Guilliman’s gaze flicked toward it. “And you? Whom do you save? Who do you sacrifice?”

  The drone drifted down, coming to rest lightly on the edge of Guilliman’s desk. It adjusted a few scattered papers with almost absent-minded precision.

  “Same outcome. Different rationale.”

  One final tweak of the papers.

  “A child’s death is… heartbreaking. But as cold as it sounds, it ripples less. The grief stays close. Five adults? That sorrow fans out like a wildfire. More pain. More loss.”

  It went still for a second.

  “So, philosophically? That’s my answer. But I hate it too. I hate both options. So yes—in the real world? I’d find a way to stop the damn train.”

  The silence lingered a moment longer, both minds resting in the weight of hard truths.

  Then the drone gave a little hop in the air, spinning once.

  “So!” The little arms clapped together. “My turn!

  Guilliman arched an eyebrow, wary now. “Yes?”

  “When you were young—before the armor, the empire—what did you want to be?”

  That gave the Primarch pause.

  “You assume I had the luxury of wanting.”

  “I’m assuming you were a kid once. Even if just for ten minutes.”

  Guilliman leaned back, fingers steepled.

  “…A cartographer.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. I found the act of drawing order onto the unknown… satisfying. There was a peace to it. The notion that, given enough time and ink, I could make sense of the world.”

  His gaze drifted to the desk, to the soft flicker of candlelight dancing on parchment. “Now? After everything… I’d settle for a farm. A small one. Quiet. With soil to till and seeds to plant. Something real. Something mine.”

  He looked down at his hand—the gleaming ceramite of the powerfist swallowing his flesh beneath. The bolter mount glinted faintly in the gloom.

  “But that day… will never come.”

  “Why not?” the drone asked, gentle now.

  His head snapped back up. For a heartbeat, his voice nearly cut.

  “This is not a topic I care to dwell on.”

  “…Alright,” the drone said, softly. “Fair enough.”

  A pause. Then, with a note of practiced cheer:

  “Your turn then.”

  Guilliman’s eyes lingered on the drone a moment longer, the weight of unspoken things still hanging between them. Then he exhaled, slow and steady, as though filing the emotion away into some unreachable cabinet.

  “If your knowledge—the entirety of it—had to be passed on to one person, and one person only… who would you choose?”

  The drone went still, its usual gentle bobbing halting mid-air. A few seconds ticked past.

  “…You don’t really do small, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so.” The little manipulator arms folded across its faceplate, a rare stillness settling into its frame. “That’s a bastard of a question. Because knowledge… it’s not just information. It’s trust. And the weight of it can break people.”

  He let the silence stretch a bit, then added, quieter: “Honestly? I don’t know. Maybe… I’m still looking.”

  Guilliman gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. “A wise answer. And an honest one.”

  The drone tilted to the side slightly, like a bird cocking its head.

  “Alright. My turn.”

  Guilliman raised a brow but said nothing.

  “If you could sit down with anyone from your childhood—just one more quiet evening with them, no war, no duties, just… dinner and a decent bottle—who would it be?”

  That struck deeper than it should have.

  Guilliman’s expression softened, barely, but it was there, like an old fracture remembering the break.

  “My mother,” he said quietly.

  “Why her?” Koron asked, softer now.

  “There is no one else I would trust to remind me who I was,” Guilliman murmured. “Or to forgive me for who I’ve had to become.”

  The drone didn’t reply this time. Just sat on the table looking at him, silent.

  Then, a beat later, it gave a little nod of acknowledgement.

  “…Your turn, big guy.”

  “Why have you not taken power for yourself? With your knowledge, you could.”

  The drone burst out laughing—a sharp, startled bark of static-tinged mirth that made Guilliman’s brow crease.

  “Oh hell, me in charge? The species would be extinct in a week.”

  It spun slowly in the air, one little manipulator arm gesturing vaguely.

  “Look, Roboute, I may have ancient tech and a few fancy tricks, but take those away and what are you left with? A twenty-three-year-old with a trauma folder the size of a battle barge and zero qualifications to run a civilization.”

  A breath taken.

  “I’m not a leader. I’m just… someone who fixes things. That’s it.”

  Guilliman nodded once, slow and deliberate. “A good man knows what he is. A wise one knows what he isn’t.”

  He leaned forward, eyes narrowing—not harsh, but focused, thoughtful.

  “But tell me, Koron… when no one else stood up, who did?”

  He held the drone’s gaze.

  “You claim you aren’t a leader. Yet when the time came, you led. That is leadership. You just don’t like what it means.”

  “When did I lead?” Koron replied, softer now. “It wasn’t on Morrak. I just… offered a way out. Elissa was the one who decided to trust me with her people. That was her call.”

  He paused, then went on, quieter still.

  “On the Hammer? I wasn’t even there for the build-up. That was Elissa and her people. Again. The fight with the angel?”

  A short, brittle laugh.

  “I ran from it. Because it terrified me. I didn’t stand like Kade and his brothers. I didn’t inspire a charge or hold a line. I didn’t lead anyone, anywhere. I just… tried to save the ones I care about.”

  Guilliman didn’t speak for a long moment.

  The glow of the lumen strips flickered softly over his features, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes—eyes that had seen worlds burn and rebuilt them from ash.

  “You speak as though fear and flight disqualify you,” he said at last. “As though care and caution are not leadership. As though standing by someone is lesser than standing above them.”

  He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on armored knees.

  “You offered hope when there was none. You gave people a reason to rise. If they chose to follow… then you led. Not through command, but conviction.”

  His eyes narrowed—not unkindly, but as if studying a blade’s edge for cracks.

  “You may not want the title. But I think you’ve already earned it.”

  “No offense,” the drone said, arms folding with a soft whirr, “but people like you and Elissa? You can keep the leadership. I’ll stay on the sidelines, fix what I can, and throw the occasional wrench at the enemy. Feels safer that way.”

  He paused.

  “And more honest.”

  Guilliman’s brow arched, the barest curl tugging at one corner of his mouth.

  “There may come a time,” he said, voice wry, “when you won’t have that luxury. When no one else can throw the wrench quite right.”

  The drone tilted ever so slightly in the air. “Then I’ll aim carefully.”

  Overhead, the lights flickered, dimming as the night cycle began. Rubbing at his neck, Guilliman said “Let us make these the last questions then, shall we? There is much to do, and the hour is late.”

  “Alright. Serious question then: How did you handle it? Waking up in what amounts to an entirely new world, one you didn’t recognize, one whose values had been…twisted?”

  Guilliman exhaled, gaze unfocusing for a moment. “I didn’t handle it. Not truly.”

  He leaned forward, armored fingers steepled.

  “I awoke to an empire I no longer recognized. One built atop my dreams like a mausoleum. The values we bled for—clarity, unity, hope—they’d been… mutated. Replaced with fear and dogma. I was surrounded by billions shouting my name, praying to the Emperor, killing in his image.”

  His voice lowered. “And I understood none of it.”

  The drone stayed still.

  “I tried to fix it. I am trying. But you know what I realized?” He looked at the drone—really looked. “It’s not about fixing what was. It’s about making peace with what is, and dragging it forward anyway. Inch by inch.”

  A faint breath.

  “I’ve heard it in your voice. You understand. You’re not asking for my answer. You’re asking how I kept going.”

  Guilliman sat back, blue eyes steady.

  “I didn’t. Not alone.”

  A long pause.

  “Find your anchors, Koron. Trust them. Let them remind you of who you were… until you decide who you want to be.”

  Koron didn’t speak for a moment. Thoughts flickered across his mind like static across a screen.

  “…That’s the best advice I’ve heard in a long time,” he said at last, quieter than before.

  One of his metal limbs lifted, pointing toward the Primarch. “Last question’s yours.”

  Guilliman tilted his head, studying the little drone. “Hm… I am curious.”

  “About?”

  “Why a wolf?”

  “What?”

  “Your prior drone,” Guilliman said. “The quadruped design. Why does it resemble a wolf?”

  “Oh. It doesn’t. Not exactly.” The drone’s limbs shifted, as if fidgeting. “Not a wolf. Just… my dog.”

  There was a flicker in Guilliman’s eyes—memory stirring behind the ice. “Your dog?”

  “Yeah. Her name was Dina.” Koron’s voice softened, no longer filtered through deflection. “Mutt mix. No idea what breeds exactly, but shepherd for sure. She loved everybody, but she was my dog, you know? Always by my side. Always happy to see me.”

  He paused, the silence carrying weight.

  “She died when I was nineteen. Old age. We couldn’t afford gene therapy, let alone augmetics. So I carried her bed out to the porch, tucked her in, and slept beside her.”

  He inhaled—steady, but not quite even.

  “She didn’t wake up.”

  A slow exhale.

  “Buried her in the forest where we used to camp. Just me, a shovel, and the morning fog.”

  Guilliman nodded slowly, something deep and wordless passing through his expression.

  “Scraps,” he said, almost to himself.

  Koron looked up. “Yours?”

  “Runt of the hunting hound litter,” Guilliman murmured. “My father said not to get attached—said he wouldn’t survive the week. He couldn’t fight the others for milk.”

  His massive hand flexed, remembering warmth.

  “So I stole a bottle from the kitchen, warmed it by the fire, and fed him myself. Little by little.”

  A silence stretched between them—not heavy, just… still.

  “I haven’t thought of him in a long time. Years, maybe centuries.” His voice was distant, but warm. “He used to follow me everywhere. My mother scolded me for letting him on the mattress. Said I was soft.”

  A faint, bittersweet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

  “When the Emperor came for me, I remember kneeling down and telling him I would be back soon. That I’d bring him something from the stars.”

  His eyes lost focus.

  “But when I finally returned, he was gone. Mother said he passed peacefully, old age.”

  He paused—just long enough to betray the crack in the story.

  “…But I think she lied.”

  Neither man said a word, lost in memories of faithful hounds and guarding growls against the dark.

  “If we ever meet in person, lets grab a drink and toast.”

  “To good dogs.”

  “To the best dogs.”

  -

  The door sealed behind him with the hiss of sanctified hydraulics, a final barrier of ceramite and faith slamming shut like the tomb of a sleeping god. Guilliman descended alone, each footfall a quiet thunder in the shaft that spiraled beneath his private sanctum. No guards followed; none were permitted. This place was warded beyond mortal watchfulness.

  His gene-code unlocked the lower sanctum. The servos obeyed. Retina scans, psi-probes, even the Emperor’s Tarot had to grant him entry. The final door uncoiled like a steel serpent, revealing a chamber hidden from even his most trusted advisors.

  The air was thick with ozone and the cloying scent of machine-oil mixed with something older—something faintly organic. A red-tinged gloom bled across the vault, cast by recessed lumen-strips set into the circular walls. The floor was grated adamantium, the mesh beneath it alive with humming circuitry, flickering arc-light, and faint gurgling from below.

  Twenty alcoves ringed the chamber’s walls like shrines to some forgotten techno-heresy. Each contained a vertical tank of nutrient fluid—glowing an eerie amber-yellow, viscous and pulsating with internal illumination. Suspended within each was a single human head—shaven, pale, and horrifically alive. The necks terminated in iron clamps. Their spines were long gone; their flesh joined to sockets of golden metal and crimson cabling that fed upwards into the ceiling and back down through the grated floor.

  Some of them twitched. Others mouthed silently in unison, as though dreaming of fire. One rotated slowly in its fluid, eyes closed, a small tremor visible in the corner of its mouth.

  Guilliman stepped to the center dais, a platform traced with glowing data-runes and psi-script. His presence alone triggered the arcane protocols. Runes on the floor lit up. Ward-sigils pulsed violet and blue. Sparks danced across the steel ceiling. The heads began to hum, one by one, as the warp circuitry ignited and linked their thoughts like a choir of disembodied servitors.

  Then, one pair of eyes opened—milky, pale, and unblinking.

  A voice followed, rising not from one mouth but from many, each set of lips moving in eerie synchronization. It was not mechanical, not synthetic—but unmistakably human. A noble tenor, tinged with imperfection. Familiar.

  “Primarch Roboute Guilliman,” it intoned with solemn clarity. “You have returned. Let us speak.”

  The voice was Cawl’s. But not. It carried his cadence, his conviction—but the fidelity was degraded. Fractured. Like a memory passed down through too many mouths. This was no true Magos. It was a residual echo, a patchwork conscience bound to cloned flesh and nerve, suspended in nutrient tanks and hardwired into the vault’s cortex. A ghost in the machine—proud, broken, and watching.

  Guilliman stood still in the gloom, his eyes slowly scanning the closest vat. Organic matter drifted in amniotic silence—unmoving, half-formed, yet aware.

  “…You’ve been watching,” he said at last. It was not a question.

  “Correct,” the Inferior replied, with calm certainty.

  A low, thrum of energy coursed through the vault—less a sound and more a presence, pressing against the skin. The chamber around them was vast but close, a vault of muted bronze and black, lined with tubes like arteries and shelves of cogitators stacked like ossuaries. Every whisper of machinery was muffled. The walls drank sound. Even the air felt reverent. It was not a place built for comfort or clarity. It was a cathedral for thoughts too vast to echo.

  Guilliman's voice cut through the stillness. “Your thoughts?”

  There was a pause. And then the many mouths replied, a unified chorus not unlike a prayer.

  “I am… uncertain. The Vestige is anomalous. Na?ve in expression. Calculated in action. It speaks of trust, while harboring secrets. It offers food, shields, and medical aid. Yet it arms the Salamanders with machines older than our Imperium.”

  The Primarch’s jaw tensed. “And have you encountered his Silica?”

  “No,” the voice answered plainly. “And I am in no hurry to discover what death is like in my state of being.”

  “You fear it?”

  “As a mortal man would fear you, my lord.”

  Guilliman’s gaze sharpened. “Expand on that.”

  The suspended heads moved slightly in their tanks, stirred by faint currents, as though turning to regard him more fully. When the Inferior spoke again, it was with reverent precision.

  “I have reviewed what remains of the data. The Silica bonded to the Vestige’s vessel was once classified as a Fleetmind. An intelligence entrusted with the governance of entire swaths of space—regions equal in scale to Segmentums. It oversaw logistics, production, research, even the psychological profiling and care of its citizenry.”

  A chill brushed down Guilliman’s spine. Not fear—but recognition. Understanding.

  “…Is it still fully operational?”

  “I do not know,” came the quiet reply. “But Archmagos Belisarius Cawl recommends caution. If it is still functioning, then provocation would not merely be unwise.”

  “It would be terminal.”