Thud, thud, thud—
Aboard the Hymn of the God-Emperor, on the first bridge.
Beneath the radiant statue of the Divine Empress, the clanging of countless metal limbs echoed sharply across the polished, gilded marble floors. The towering, stooped figure of the Adeptus Mechanicus' Archmagos Dominus—an absurd iron colossus of mechanical parts and withered flesh—slowly raised his head.
The immense chamber was a grand cylindrical hall, equal in height and width, crowned by a vast domed ceiling.
The arched roof of enamelled glass and gold shone with refracted light; spiral mosaics of multicolored crystal gleamed like galaxies. Silken banners bearing the double-headed aquila hung proudly from the walls, while the immaculate floor shimmered like a half-buried diamond.
It was, in truth, a cathedral—a magnificent sanctuary built atop the ship's spine.
Hum—
A faint vibration coursed through every inch of Belisarius Cawl's mechanical form.
Beneath his heavy hood, his electronic eyes glowed faintly; his logic modules spun furiously.
For before him stood a god.
A god worshiped with unwavering faith—another Emperor.
At the center of the chamber, bathed in sacred light, stood a colossal statue of the Imperial sovereign—distorted in proportion yet immaculate in form. One hand held a mighty axe symbolizing authority and dominion; the other, a scroll representing knowledge and order.
Countless Custodian Guards and Sisters of Silence knelt at her feet. Around her swirled not the mechanical cherubim and servo-angels of the Mechanicus, but true angels—ethereal beings of unmatched beauty, radiating reverence and holiness.
"++Emperor or heretic—that is the question. Even the Necrons and the Eldar meddle now. Curious... curious...++"
The low binary murmurs of the Mechanicus echoed—a whisper in the machine oil tongue.
Drawing his gaze away from the statue—so unlike the masculine, monumental effigies enshrined in the Ecclesiarchy's cathedrals—Belisarius Cawl turned slightly. His cogitator emitted rapid bursts of data pulses as he searched for someone—one who had once bestowed upon him countless missions and divine purpose.
And finally—he found him.
The Primarch of the Ultramarines, the Lord of Ultramar, the Warden of the Imperium, the Uncrowned King, the Blade of Unity, the Lord Commander of the Imperium, the Master of the Five Hundred Worlds—Roboute Guilliman.
Cawl's optics locked onto the figure of the one who had entrusted him with a millennia-long mission.
Through the golden stained-glass windows, radiant depictions of the Emperor's Primarchs filled the chamber with divine light, each scene recounting their glories and triumphs.
Beneath the Roman numeral XIII, encircled by olive branches, stood the image of the giant in blue armor and golden helm—the omega sigil marking his lineage. Crowned with laurel, he held a sword that blazed with the fury of dying stars, rivaling the brilliance of a supernova.
"++No... not the same. He is not Guilliman.++"
His thought-streams scrolled rapidly through countless stored memories—records spanning ten thousand years. After a long moment of internal computation, Belisarius Cawl slowly shook his head.
His logic and memory modules confirmed it: if his archives were accurate, the Thirteenth Primarch never wielded such a weapon.
The blade that burned eternally—akin to the Emperor's Sword—was beyond what the Ultramarine Primarch ever possessed. Cawl double-checked his sensors. The holy reliquary within his forgeship's sanctum remained sealed. The readings were true.
The figure in the mural differed in many details from the one he remembered.
"++Another Omnissiah... two faces of the Emperor, two faces of the Primarchs.++"
"++A plot of the Changer of Ways? Nonsense.++"
He now stood aboard the flagship of the Seventeenth Legion—the Evangelists of the Divine Empress. Naturally, he had already gathered sufficient information about these so-called Astartes who had appeared over Cadia.
Or rather, the information had been deliberately shared with him.
Belisarius Cawl understood well: these legions did not belong to the Imperium—but neither were they traitors.
Moreover, they came with the endorsement of the Emperor's own apostle.
"Thank you..."
Saint Celestine prayed, kneeling upon the gleaming floor. She lifted her face toward the star-filled sky beyond the open dome, and between her closed eyelids, a single golden tear slid down her cheek.
"Thank You, my Emperor. You walk among mortals once more, spreading compassion and virtue throughout the worlds. Your divine grace shall guide us toward the light... the Heaven-bestowed Mandate shall enlighten us, Your humble flock..."
The fire of faith coursed through her wings and veins. When Celestine opened her eyes again, they shone with golden light, as though reflecting a radiant sun suspended above a pale sea. Her flawless face bloomed with an angelic smile.
"Without a doubt."
Clank, clank, clank—
Heavy footsteps approached. Warriors clad in slate-gray power armor followed their Primarch. Their newly polished armor gleamed beneath the lights, inscribed and engraved with prayers, hymns, and pious inscriptions in High Gothic. The golden double-headed eagle emblazoned upon each chestplate glowed with divine brilliance.
Within the ship's halls, most of the Divine Empress Evangelists did not wear helmets, revealing faces that seemed unlike both the corrupted and the Imperium's own Astartes.
Too clean.
Belisarius Cawl, long accustomed to both Imperial Space Marines and the corrupted Chaos brethren, found these self-proclaimed Evangelists of the Divine Empress strangely refreshing. His logic modules compared and analyzed again and again.
There was no filth, no corruption. Even compared to the loyalist Astartes, these warriors were markedly different in temperament and demeanor.
Their faces were clean, almost sculpted from marble—handsome, disciplined, radiating noble strength. They resembled, more than anything, the perfect visages of the Emperor's gene-sons of legend.
No tattoos. No bizarre tribal customs. No service studs, nor any cybernetic implants embedded in flesh.
"If you surrender to despair, you abandon yourself to shadow. Believe—believe sincerely in the Divine Empress, and no matter how dark your path, you shall walk within Her light."
With the mutual understanding born of shared faith, the Primarch of the Divine Empress Evangelists, Lorgar Aurelian, spoke with reverent cadence to Saint Celestine, his voice resonant and devout.
"My lady, it seems your faith has become resolute."
Celestine rose slowly, meeting the towering figure before her with calm dignity. "It has never wavered—so how could it need reaffirming?"
"Lord Lorgar," she continued softly, "there is, however, one matter that requires your answer. By the Emperor's blessing, I have unraveled an old psychic prophecy. Among the heroes destined to journey with us to Macragge, one is still missing... aside from yourself."
Lorgar replied, "Prophecy is not destiny. All things are change. Tell me, my lady—what did you see?"
"A metallic world glowing with eerie green light... a sealed chamber deep underground... and a furious soul imprisoned within a stasis field..."
As another debate on prophecy and faith seemed ready to ignite, Belisarius Cawl's rasping vox-emitter broke the growing tension.
"Lord Lorgar, we have arrived at Macragge... but... if I may offer counsel, I recommend you proceed with caution..."
"Because of that betrayal—the me who turned against his own brother, yes?"
After saluting the statue of Selene, Lorgar lowered his clasped hands and waved gently, smiling kindly to still the Archmagos' concern.
"Faith and worldly matters are alike—contradiction is not the problem; avoidance is. The more one flees, the greater the burden becomes." Lorgar laughed warmly, bending slightly as he extended his hand, palm upward.
"To be betrayed by one's own blood, to slumber in near-death for millennia... I think I owe that poor brother, whom I've never met, a helping hand. Don't you agree? Even the Eldar xenos claim they can save him—how could I allow them that honor alone?"
As he spoke, Lorgar approached the panoramic viewport of the bridge. Before everyone's eyes, the form of Macragge grew steadily larger.
It was a beautiful world. As far as the eye could see, its surface was covered three-quarters by mountain ranges and frozen plateaus, the rest a glimmering ocean of blue light—an image unthinkable for an industrial world of the Imperium's might.
To preserve a planet's natural beauty while housing sprawling cities, Chapter fortress-monasteries, planetary fortress complexes, starports, landing fields, and vast industrial hubs—Macragge was indeed a rare treasure.
Yet now, the world was shrouded in blood-red mist.
Across its surface, the smoke and dust of war scarred its beauty like festering wounds. Battles raged both upon the planet and in its orbit, where Macragge's defense fleet clashed in formation with the blood-streaked armada of Chaos. The void was filled with roaring gunfire and shattering hulls.
The moment Lorgar's fleet entered the Macragge system, the whispers began—the incessant murmurs of Chaos, hissing through every comm-channel and nerve-link.
As Lorgar narrowed his eyes, gauging the vile aura of sacrilege and corruption, he realized how similar it was to the dark sermons of the Word Bearers' apostates at Cadia.
"The Great Rift's influence flows both ways," Celestine said grimly. "The Emperor's power is awakening—and so too does the strength of the Chaos filth surge anew... they actually..."
Her fists clenched, rage and disgust flooding through her like wildfire. Her voice trembled with fury as she nearly shouted:
"That sigil... Word Bearers—it's Kor Phaeron's blasphemous fleet!"
A rare moment of pure emotional lapse, born of hatred.
Lorgar tilted his head curiously. "And who is that?"
Belisarius Cawl interjected softly, "Your foster father... from Colchis."
"Ah? Foster father?!"
...
Macragge.
Capital of the Ultramar Sector in the Eastern Fringe—once the heart of the Five Hundred Worlds of Ultramar.
It was the birthplace and homeworld of the Thirteenth Primarch, and the founding world of the Ultramarines Chapter. Though harsh in climate and located at the galaxy's distant edge, it remained one of the most revered worlds of the Imperium—a holy site second only to Holy Terra itself.
For upon this world slept the Emperor's own son.
Crown Mountain, Fortress of Hera.
A blood-red moon loomed above, its pale light glimmering upon the battered fortress. Craters left by Hell Talon bombardments cratered the walls, shadows flickering like lurking daemons in the night.
The thick, acrid air was heavy with smoke, death, and iron. It was a slaughterhouse.
Boom—!
Ratatatatatatata—!
Bang! Bang-bang-bang!
"Huff... huff... huff..."
Through the roar of gunfire, Chapter Master Marneus Augustus Calgar swung his massive master-crafted power fists. The crackling gauntlets arced with blue lightning as he crushed the skull of a Terminator of [Khorne] beneath a single blow. The ivory-decorated helm exploded in a spray of gore and metal shards.
Splurch—
The body flew backward, smashing through reinforced walls with enough force to shatter bone and steel alike.
"Chapter Master—it's scattered warbands of the World Eaters, alongside those Word Bearer filth! One of their leaders is that bastard Kor Phaeron, your foster father's kin!"
A veteran Terminator, his left arm blown off by a krak missile and sealed by coagulant gel, leaned against the wall, snarling through pain. "Lapdogs of false gods—always sniffing out their masters' scraps!"
"What should we do, Chapter Master? That Colchis filth must be after the Gene-Father—we must stop him!"
"To the death!"
The shouts of his brothers filled the comms. Calgar's face, like carved granite, was grim and exhausted. Sweat dripped from his brow, splattering against his dented chestplate.
He was tired—utterly spent.
Even for an Astartes, the ceaseless intensity of the battle was wearing him down.
Ever since the Great Rift had torn the galaxy from Cadia across the stars, Calgar had known Chaos would strike back. He had poured every ounce of strength into fortifying Macragge's defenses.
But now, because of someone's act within the Sea of Souls—an act that had consumed even the highest of heavens—the material universe itself teetered on the brink. The tendrils of the Great Rift could not yet reach them, but the Warp storms that followed were devastating.
The Astronomican's signal had flickered, the Navigators were all but blind. Even as Master of the Ultramarines, Calgar could not summon reinforcements fast enough to defend the shrine where his Gene-Father slept.
"Huff... damn it... the Astropathic Choir had better earn their keep... or else..." Calgar muttered bitterly, glancing toward the fortress monastery's deepest sanctum.
There, his Gene-Father lay in slumber.
"To die and return to the Golden Throne—our Gene-Father must never be defiled by Chaos!"
And then—almost at that very instant, as Calgar resolved to destroy Fortress Hera should it fall—
"Chapter Master! A message from the Choir—they've received a response to our distress signal!"
—
—
40 Advanced Chapters Available on Patreon:
Patreon.com/DaoOfHeaven