Part I - A Letter
None among the teeming multitudes scattered across the Imperium's star-scattered dominions could deny the Princess's indelible imprint upon the tapestry of existence. Her name was woven into the prayers of the faithful, whispered in the shadowed corners of hive-cities and roared in defiance by those who had warred against the Imperium since time's first dawn. Across a million worlds and the silent gulfs between, her influence unfurled—not as a furtive murmur, but as a clarion peal that rang from the Throneworld and reverberated through the void. On the battered frontlines, where the earth was churned to mud, and the blood of war pooled deeper than any river, missives from Terra arrived on the wings of hope, fragile yet unyielding. The Astra Militarum, the Imperial Guard, those billions of weary souls, received these messages as lifelines cast into a storm-tossed sea. In their trenches, beneath the shattered vaults of ruined cathedrals, soldiers clung to her name as one might clutch a candle in the heart of endless night—a beacon burning defiantly against the encroaching dark, a song of hope rising above the dirge of despair.
All of it, every whispered prayer and desperate act, was for a single, luminous purpose. The Princess sought to rekindle that most fragile and precious of flames, a feeling long banished from the hearts of the Imperium's children. She would give them hope.
"Let them believe their lives hold weight once more. Let their sacrifice echo with meaning beyond the tally of the dead," Aurelia murmured, her voice barely a breath amid the glow of her data-slates. Her gaze remained fixed upon the endless streams of casualty reports—names and numbers bleeding across the displays, each a soul lost upon the brutal anvil of the Indomitus Crusade.
Aurelia took a deep breath, taking her time to close her eyes and then continue. It wasn't over. It would never be over. Still, Aurelia, ever watchful and attuned to the pulse of her father's realm, had turned her gaze to the Imperium's lifelines—the delicate Astra Relays and the soaring Chorus Spires, slender pillars of hope rising above the tumult. She understood, as did her brothers Dorn and Guilliman, the gravity of their purpose in this age of uncertainty. These arteries of communication, once threatened by the insatiable hunger of the Warp, now thrummed with renewed vigour, their signals cutting through the madness like blades of light. Where once the Imperium had teetered on the brink of suffocating silence, Aurelia's will and ingenuity wove the scattered worlds together, thread by golden thread, voice by distant voice. And now, with the Emperor's soul restored—whole, radiant, and resplendent—the vox messages carried a resonance that could not be denied, as if the Master of Mankind himself breathed courage into every faltering heart.
Even the Astronomicon's light, that ancient beacon, was swept into her designs. In another age, the Great Rift might have sundered the Imperium utterly, casting a shroud of doubt and shadow across the stars, leaving worlds to founder in isolation and fear. But the Emperor, forged by ten thousand years of agony and the slow poison of living death, had become a force of implacable will. He would not allow Chaos its triumph, not after so long a torment. Aurelia, with a wry and knowing smile, would call her father vindictive—and she would mean it, utterly.
Nevertheless, Aurelia's gaze shifted from the unending cascade of data to a peculiar presence at her side—a figure so small and enigmatic it unsettled even the stone-faced Custodes, who found themselves at a loss for how to respond. Cloaked in a robe that draped like a funeral shroud, the creature's features were lost to darkness, its face an abyss where light dared not trespass. It did not walk so much as it simply appeared, as though reality itself bent to its whims; one moment absent, the next standing precisely where it needed to be. It was a Watcher in the Dark.
Perhaps it was fortunate that only Aurelia truly grasped the nature of these elusive beings. She often mused that, were the wider Imperium to comprehend their insignificance in the yawning expanse of the cosmos, despair would surely claim them. Some, she knew, chose blissful ignorance, content to drift through life without peering into the abyss. The Dark Angels, ever stoic and secretive, excelled at such willful blindness—perhaps explaining the peculiar fondness the Watchers held for them. Dangerous in their own inscrutable way, the Watchers in the Dark seemed to Aurelia both endearing and exasperating, their presence a riddle wrapped in shadow, forever skirting the edge of comprehension.
"The letter to Supreme Grand Master Azrael is written," Aurelia said, her tone both grave and measured. "And we both know its truths would be dismissed out of hand, unless it comes from you." She pressed the sealed dispatch into the Watcher's diminutive hands, the creature vanishing the missive into the voluminous folds of its robe as if by sleight of hand. "Let us hope my brother's sons do not respond with their usual... excess of caution."
The Watcher in the Dark regarded her with a faceless, inscrutable stare, the void beneath its hood somehow conveying a dry amusement. Aurelia caught the silent mockery—she knew well enough that to expect the Dark Angels to forgo paranoia was to ask the stars to burn cold. Masters of secrecy, they wore their suspicions as armour, embellishing every act with ritual and shadow. It was little wonder the Watchers found kinship with them.
"One must still hope," Aurelia murmured, glancing down at her shadowed companion. Her voice softened to a whisper as she asked, "How fares my brother? How fares the Lion?"
He slumbers. As is ordained. For now, that must remain. The Watcher's reply was a thought more than a sound, echoing in her mind like the hush of ancient tombs. Aurelia's sigh was laced with resignation; she knew well the necessity. Time's river had not yet washed away all wounds, nor restored her brother to himself. The Lion must remember, must become what his sons and even the Fallen require of him.
"I understand," Aurelia whispered.
"Shipments to the forsaken systems are underway," Aurelia continued, her words clipped with purpose. "Even the Fallen will find lost arms and armour among them."
The Watcher tilted its hood, voiceless yet eloquent in its disapproval—or perhaps simple curiosity.
You have already rewritten so much. If you persist in meddling with the currents of fate, the tides will shift further.
Aurelia's lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "Is that so dire, my silent friend? The tapestry is changed because of me. Better to steer the course than feign ignorance of the storm."
You misunderstand us. We do not seek to hinder you. We wish for you to change more.
"Oh?" Aurelia arched an eyebrow, a glimmer of intrigue lighting her features. "And why is that?"
Because every change drives another nail into Chaos's coffin. We would see ourselves as its undertakers.
Aurelia's laughter was soft, a ripple of warmth against the Watcher's perpetual gloom. "You've been reading the Dark Angels' chronicles, haven't you?" The Watcher's answering shrug—a rustle of robe and shadow—was almost comical. "Very well. Granted. Perhaps I can mend even the rift between my brother and Guilliman. Their last meeting was... less than amicable."
The Watcher in the Dark seemed to cringe within its shrouds, as if the very thought of what might unfold was a blade poised above fragile glass. The matter of the Lion and Guilliman was a wound yet to scab over—should they meet again. Among the many things they would discuss, the Codex Astartes would become a battleground of words, and even now, Dorn's pragmatism hovered at the edge of such debates, more flexible than the Lion's ancient pride.
The Watcher then fixed Aurelia with its fathomless gaze, the silence between them thick with unspoken caution.
Be wary, Ember of Creation. Your power is measureless, but your humanity is not. To fully ignite that primordial spark within you risks burning away the very restraint that keeps you whole.
Aurelia breathed out a sigh, her shoulders heavy with memory and prophecy. "To face the Four will demand all I possess—even what I would keep hidden from myself. We both understand this. The last ten millennia were not wasted in mourning for lost brothers, but in shaping potential. The Ruinous Powers would delight in seeing me join their eternal Great Game, to dance forever as another pawn, or worse, to claim the throne they once offered my father. To become the fifth. I refuse. I will not be their piece."
The Watcher's silence deepened, then it inclined its veiled head, shadows shifting like the folds of fate.
Then master the Emerald Throne entirely. Remember: the Great Game is a game only until the dice begin to favour one, and Chaos is ever eager to play—but never to lose.
"I know," Aurelia breathed, closing her eyes as golden morning spilt across her chambers, illuminating dust motes that spun like distant stars. When she opened them, the Watcher had vanished, leaving only the hush of the sanctum and the echo of warnings in the air. She looked up at the vaulted ceiling, let her eyes fall shut once more, and whispered into the silence:
"I know."
Part II - The Grand Plan
The Princess stood beside her brother Dorn within the vaulted expanse of the Emerald Throne's grand hall, a sanctum of gleaming adamantium and emerald-lit marble. Here, the air thrummed with the constant susurrus of cogitators and the spectral flicker of data-feeds. It didn't help the magos' endless praying and their holy oil and incense to create a rather thick fog around the chamber, yet it allowed for each apparatus streaming intelligence from the furthest reaches of the void to work properly, which, Aurelia knew, mattered the most. Before them, shimmering into existence from the command deck of the Gladius Aeternitas, the luminous and ethereal form of Roboute Guilliman materialised—an apparition of blue and gold, his presence both reassuring and grave.
"Brother," Aurelia intoned, her voice gentle as starlight. Dorn answered only with a succinct nod—his taciturn greeting as familiar to his siblings as the cold adamantium beneath their feet. Guilliman, observing from the spectral projection, understood well enough. Dorn was not given to words, especially after all that had transpired.
Aurelia had confided that Dorn had spent long, silent hours within the shadowed sanctum of the Golden Throne, speaking—if such a word sufficed—with the Emperor himself. Guilliman was not surprised; he, too, had sought to speak with their father in that solemn, echoing chamber. Each of them bore their own burdens, grievances, and bitter questions, forged anew by the dissonance of awakening in an Imperium unrecognisable from the one they had built.
No one asked Dorn what had passed between him and the Emperor. Neither Guilliman nor Aurelia felt the need to intrude upon that private reckoning. It was not ignorance that stayed their tongues, but the unspoken pact among siblings—each would share their encounter with the Emperor in their own time, when words could bear the weight of what they had seen and felt. Until then, the silence between them was a bond, not a barrier.
Yet, their attentions were not for each other, but for the sprawling holographic galaxy map that dominated the chamber's heart. It projected a living mosaic of a thousand warfronts: banners shifting, frontlines surging and retreating, the Indomitus Crusade carving its path through the darkness. Guilliman, observing from afar, wore a mask of stoic determination, his eyes hard and thoughtful as he took in the scale of the struggle. In moments such as these, he allowed himself a rare solace—knowing, if only for now, he was not alone in bearing the Imperium's fate. The thought of enduring such endless toil without his siblings at his side chilled even his unyielding heart.
Guilliman's endurance was legendary, but even he could not ignore the crushing weight of unending duty. To shoulder such a burden alone would be to court despair—a fate even a Primarch might find insurmountable. Still, it was the latest intelligence that had drawn them together.
"Brothers," Aurelia intoned, her voice commanding, "Inquisitor Greyfax and Inquisitor Erasmus Crowl have completed their investigation on Voltikron III. My fears were not unfounded: cultist and traitor machinations fester dangerously close to Terra." At her word, the map shifted, Segmentum Solar blazing to prominence, systems and worlds flickering into focus—Voltikron III, Daikeos, Amontep III, Vellung, and the battered bastion of Armageddon.
"The forces of Chaos are desperate—determined to establish a stronghold near Segmentum Solar," she continued, the gravity of her words underscored by the shifting tides on the display.
Dorn's voice rumbled, his scepticism edged with concern. "I thought daemons could not approach Segmentum Solar, not with your light shielding the Throneworld."
With a sweep of her hand, Aurelia commanded the map to display the radiant pulse streaming outward from Terra, waves of celestial light repelling the Warp's predations, clashing at the boundaries of the Great Rift, holding the galaxy's doom at bay. The Astronomicon's beacon was a bulwark, its light both sword and shield.
"True, they cannot breach it directly," Aurelia conceded, her expression darkening. "But they adapt. They seek to carve Terra into an isolated island, severing the Emperor's light from the Imperium's arteries. If any of these worlds fall, the encroachment tightens, the noose draws closer. I am bound to Terra—my power sustains the Astronomicon and our father alike. That is why our enemies labour to isolate us. To isolate me, to stifle the light of the Astronomicon at its very source."
Guilliman's eyes traced the shifting lines of the map, his mind swiftly grasping the threat. "They seek to make Terra a fortress, yes, but one cut off—a bastion walled so tightly it suffocates. They would turn our own defences inward, isolating us behind our strength."
Dorn's voice was a measured growl. "Have Inquisitor Greyfax and Erasmus Crowl succeeded in purging the cultists at Voltikron III?"
Aurelia shook her head, her gaze lingering on the illuminated system. "The battle rages still, but Greyfax is confident. With a company of the Lionsguard deployed and the Grey Knights now planetfall, they will soon reclaim it. Months of darkness have left scars, and pacification will not be swift. Yet, the system will be ours. We must reinforce our borders. The Astronomicon is potent, but should the Ruinous Powers marshal their full strength, they could summon Warp storms to choke Segmentum Solar. If that happens, half the Imperium could be blinded. Such worlds must not fall."
Dorn leaned over the map, his eyes as hard as ceramite. "I will command these fronts, Roboute. Segmentum Solar shall not be breached. The Imperial Fists and our Successors will hold these worlds and the crucial warp lanes. The Indomitus Crusade cannot be everywhere at once."
"One spear of the Crusade cuts toward the Armageddon Sector," Guilliman interjected, his tone grave. "Reports cite daemonic incursions and a mounting Ork horde—vast enough to eclipse the sector within the year. Armageddon is volatile."
Aurelia studied the battle scars on the map and sighed. "The Armageddon Steel Legion holds, but not indefinitely. Without reinforcements and munitions, the Orks will swamp them, and the sector could be lost. What are our options?"
She saw her brothers exchanging knowing glances, already strategising.
"We need a fleet presence so formidable the Orks cannot gain a foothold," Dorn declared, gesturing toward the Aeternum-Maximus Class Behemoth, Imperatoris Lux. "Deploy it to Armageddon. The Imperium has but two of these titans—Gladius Aeternitas and Imperatoris Lux. Two more are in the foundries, but their birthing will take a decade. These behemoths exist for moments like this—to become the wall against annihilation."
"The Phalanx endures its refit, destined to anchor Terra's shield once restored. Until then, Armageddon must remain within Imperial hands," Dorn said.
"Agreed. I'll station a division of the Unnumbered Sons there," Guilliman responded.
"And three companies of the Lionsguard will join them. I'll also dispatch four Colossi of Terra to Armageddon," Aurelia added. This drew a look from her brothers, amusement flickering briefly amid the tension. "What?" she prompted, eyebrow arched.
Dorn smirked. "Nothing. Merely that those titans have not marched since the War of the Beast, ten millennia past."
Aurelia shrugged. "They are weapons—meant to be wielded, not hoarded. Schematics and STC are already with Laurel Systems; production has begun anew. It will take time, but such engines are made for war."
She caught Guilliman's thoughtful expression in the flickering holo. "Well? Why are you both staring at me?"
Guilliman's tone was careful, tinged with old concern. "It's just—your innovations have always changed the balance. The Great Crusade soared on the wings of your genius. The Volkite Corona and Quietus Charge remain lynchpins of Imperial might."
"And the Regia Storm-Pistol is still prized by every Astartes fortunate enough to wield one," Dorn added.
Aurelia frowned. "I still fail to see your point."
Guilliman's voice softened. "We do not want you to lose yourself, Aurelia. Not as you did in the Great Crusade. You delve too deeply, too fiercely. We need our sister, not a machine that births miracles for war. The Imperium needs its princess, its regent, it needs you, fully."
At that, Aurelia's expression gentled, understanding blooming beneath the weight of memory.
"Alright. I shall be careful and only create great machines of war on Sundays," Aurelia replied with a smile, which almost earned a chuckle from her brothers.
Then their attention was drawn to a specific place on the galactic map before them: a region in the Ultima Segmentum—the Nephilim Sector. Guilliman and Dorn had reviewed the reports; both sensed that something monumental was about to occur there. Aurelia, however, knew precisely what was coming—she had already seen it. Almost mockingly, Aurelia mused that the looming Pariah Crusade, or the so-called Nephilim War, was a fixed point in time. No matter how many millions of futures she glimpsed, there was always a Pariah Crusade, always a massive war: the Imperium, Necrons loyal to Imotekh, Necrons loyal to Szarekh, and Chaos—all embroiled in conflict. Even the forces of Chaos were fractured, fighting amongst themselves.
Aurelia understood the significance of what was to come. Many things would be required, especially concerning the Blackstones and the Pylons located there. It wasn't as if Aurelia was ignorant of their workings—she knew everything about them. She had already sent extensive data to Belisarius Cawl, enabling him to better comprehend their function and crucial importance. Yet, the reason she hadn't constructed them herself was the sheer complexity involved. The Necron Pylon Arrays could not be easily replicated. Not impossible, true, but far from simple. Creating Imperium versions would take immense time, if it were possible at all.
Moreover, vast quantities of Blackstone would be necessary just to attempt building their own Necron-style Pylons.
"You have ordered a massive evacuation of civilians," Dorn remarked, his tone one of curiosity rather than judgment.
"I have, yes," Aurelia replied, moving her hand over the holographic map. As Dorn and Guilliman studied the Nephilim Sector, an eerie stillness hung over it. "In the years ahead, this will become one of the biggest fronts of the Indomitus Crusade. I've ordered the sector's fleet and the Space Marine Chapter stationed there to evacuate all civilians from the inner systems and to establish a perimeter along the sector's edge. They are to await the spearhead of the Indomitus Crusade."
Guilliman was surprised, but he understood the reasoning. "Necrons," he stated, already well acquainted with their reputation. "From my understanding, these are extremely dangerous enemies."
"From your understanding, brother?" Dorn replied, his expression impassive. "The information I've received suggests they are far more than a mere threat."
"The Adeptus Mechanicus concealed the true scale of the Necron threat, brother," Guilliman said, annoyance clear in his voice. "If not for Cawl's arrogance in confiding in me, and our sister providing me with more details, I doubt either of us would have grasped just how dangerous they truly are." The idea that the Adeptus Mechanicus had been fighting a clandestine war against such advanced and powerful beings—ones that made a mockery of all Guilliman knew of technology—was deeply troubling.
"The truth remains: the Imperium cannot truly win against the Necrons—not fully. Not now," Aurelia said.
"Not truly, you say?" Dorn replied, catching the hesitation in his sister's voice. Despite her words, there was a suggestion that while the Imperium might not be able to face the Necrons head-on, victory was not entirely out of reach. "So, you think it's not impossible."
"Truth be told, the Necron Dynasties are powerful—too powerful—but also divided, each plagued by its own internal problems. Some of their Tomb Worlds have been destroyed by accident, others by cosmic disaster, and some awoke to find themselves crippled, as if the universe itself worked against them. Others have been lost to the sacrifices of Space Marine Chapters. So, yes, defeating them isn't impossible. But in open battle, especially in the void against their war machines and starships? Facing a full Necron Dynasty would be a slaughter," Aurelia finished, and she didn't need to elaborate; Dorn and Guilliman understood exactly what she meant.
"Sister, you mentioned divisions among the Necrons. How deep does it go?" Guilliman asked, pressing for more detail. Dorn, too, was intent on hearing more.
Aurelia closed her left eye for a moment, as if reading invisible words in her mind—seeking not just the future, but the present. She needed to be sure her information was accurate, as it too often was, unfortunately. She saw glimpses, then opened her eyes again.
"Not all dynasties cooperate. Some isolate themselves, others hunt for their own power. Imotekh the Stormlord is leading a rebellion and war against the Silent King, Szarekh. Sides are being chosen. Dynasties are fracturing."
"Then they aren't a united front. That gives us opportunities to focus on key objectives—and perhaps to surprise them," Guilliman said.
"Be careful, Roboute. The Necrons are not what they once were—divided, their most powerful technologies scattered or lost by their own hands. Some don't even remember that they are Necrons. But they are still the most advanced and dangerous race in the galaxy," Aurelia warned. "To think the Imperium could defeat their greatest dynasties by sheer numbers alone would be foolish."
"You underestimate us, sister. We are not Leman Russ, charging headlong without preparation," Dorn countered, referencing their brother. Somewhere in the galaxy, Leman Russ no doubt felt Dorn's words. Guilliman nodded; he had the information he needed and could now better prepare for the campaign in the Nephelim Sector.
"Perhaps a fair point, sister. But do remember we led the Great Crusade for more than a hundred years. We understand clearly the weight of failure as well, the weight of duty," Roboute added. Aurelia closed her eyes, conceding silently.
"My apologies, brothers. I don't mean to lecture you on the arts of war. I am simply worried. The enemies the Imperium faces now are nothing like those of the Great Crusade," Aurelia said. Both Guilliman and Dorn seemed to understand her concern.
"Your worries are noted, sister. But you'd sleep better if you didn't fret over us. We can take care of ourselves," Dorn said with a rare hint of warmth, making Aurelia chuckle.
"I do have to remind myself sometimes—you were dead," Aurelia teased, watching Dorn try to brush it off. "And Roboute, you were brought back by a living saint, an angry and overzealous Inquisitor, a barefoot Aeldari—admittedly quite attractive—and Belisarius Cawl, the most arrogant heretic in the galaxy. So I think I'm justified in my concern."
"Point taken," Guilliman replied, unable to argue with her logic.