The massive doors slowly closed behind them, sealing off all sound from the outside world.
Osiris and Sigismund, guided silently by the Custodian Tribune, finally set foot inside the Imperial Palace of Terra.
The first space they passed through was a gateway so vast it defied imagination—large enough for a War Titan to walk through with its head held high.
Above stretched a vault as tall as a mountain peak; beneath them lay a road paved with colossal stones, their surfaces worn by centuries yet still unbreakably solid.
This place was called the Avenue of Triumph, though it was not built for celebration, but rather as a manifestation of Imperial might.
Towering walls flanked both sides, rising out of sight. Layer upon layer of defensive structures clung to them, and tens of thousands of Imperial Army soldiers stood like statues of steel, their gazes following the unusual visitors.
The air smelled faintly of machine oil, dust, and incense.
Invisible scanning rays washed over them repeatedly like tides, scrutinizing every molecule, every ripple of psychic energy.
After passing through this initial colossus of a gateway, they entered a relatively open plaza.
The ground was made of polished black stone, mirror-smooth and reflecting the distorted sky above, warped by the immense energy fields surrounding the palace complex.
In the distance, the Himalayas, long since buried beneath megastructures and stripped of their natural shape, could still be vaguely discerned.
The sounds here were low and rhythmic: the hum of heavy machinery and the synchronized footsteps of distant regiments changing shifts.
Pilgrims and officials were strictly separated and guided along controlled routes for deeper inspection.
The Custodians escorting Osiris did not slow for even a moment. Their golden forms parted the flow of humanity like blades. No one dared block them; few even dared raise their heads.
Soon they entered the palace proper.
Its entrance was another sequence of monumental arches, decorated with ancient reliefs and Imperial symbols.
Beyond them stretched a corridor so long its end could not be seen.
It was wide enough for several Knight-class walkers to march abreast. Massive pillars reached up to the vaulted ceiling, carved with humanity's glories and tragedies.
The floor was made of some dark red, ultra-durable material. Their footsteps generated faint hollow echoes that were swallowed almost instantly by the vast space.
Most oppressive of all were the Custodians stationed at regular intervals along both sides of the corridor.
They stood like golden sculptures, utterly motionless, yet Osiris could feel their emotionless sensor-focuses locked onto him and the two sealed containers.
The weight of being wordlessly observed by absolute power was enough to break the spirit of any mortal.
As they proceeded deeper, the halls became less overwhelmingly vast, but the security grew even more intense.
Custodians were still present, but shadowy figures in dark robes began to appear in the peripheries—beings with obscure, veiled presences.
The concentration of psychic energy in the air rose noticeably. The thick incense seemed nearly solid, as if meant to cloak something older and far more unsettling.
The lighting dimmed, leaving only ever-burning braziers casting flickering illumination on the stone walls.
At last they arrived before a massive, unadorned black metal gate.
This was their destination:
The entrance to the Emperor's Throne Room.
The air felt frozen, the temperature rising with each breath. A deep, continuous vibration—like the hum of a planet's core—emanated from behind the door, pressing against their ears and nerves.
The Custodian Tribune halted and turned to them.
No words were needed. Osiris and Sigismund both knew: beyond this gate lay the heart of the Imperium—the end point of their long and dangerous journey.
The great black doors began to open inward.
The doors closed fully behind them, trapping even the faintest sound from the outside world.
The Audience Hall was vast beyond any spatial logic—more a man-made realm than a chamber.
The air was thick with ozone, ancient stone dust… and a crushing pressure like the whispers of countless souls layered atop one another.
At the far end of the hall blazed an impossible radiance of gold.
Within that blinding glow stood the Golden Throne, a monumental, unfathomably complex engine of machinery.
Its rumbling and the shrill keen of raw energy filled the chamber, as steady as the heartbeat of the Imperium itself.
Rogal Dorn stood a short distance from the Throne.
Even in this titanic hall, his towering form remained imposing. He wore unadorned black armor, and his face was lined with exhaustion and a kind of frozen resolve.
His very presence was that of a fortress—unshakeable, immovable.
Sigismund stepped forward, bowed his head, and began his report in a steady voice:
"Father, we have arrived. During the voyage we encountered a coordinated Ork assault, an ambush by Death Guard traitors, and interference from Mars—"
Dorn lifted a hand, cutting him off.
The Primarch did not even look at Sigismund. His gaze passed straight over him and locked instead onto Osiris—and the two sealed containers being carried by the Tech-Priests.
"Those matters can be discussed later," Dorn said, his voice like grinding stone, focused and absolute.
"Magos Osiris. Show me what you have brought."
Osiris inclined his mechanical torso and performed the sign of the cog with his original two arms.
He spoke no unnecessary words—just issued a command.
A Tech-Priest stepped forward and opened the first container, revealing the intricately engineered genesis biosphere within.
With Dorn's silent permission, Osiris activated the device.
Inside the ecosphere, the environment was sterile—nothing but sand and rocks sourced from a death world.
As a small dose of Genesis Particles dispersed, visible changes began immediately.
The grains of sand fused and reorganized, forming soil-like substrate.Moisture condensed in the air, forming tiny droplets, then a faint mist.
Moments later, a spark of green life broke through the "earth."It grew with impossible speed, unfolding into a minuscule yet vibrant spread of moss—complete with a few pale, pin-sized blossoms.
Life, born from nothing, unfolding silently before the Golden Throne.
Dorn stared at the green micro-garden. His usually glacier-cold features tightened slightly, and a faint flicker—of awe mixed with intense caution—passed through his eyes.
He was just about to speak.
Then the second container was opened.
The emergency-built warp-drive core lay within, its smooth contours utterly alien compared to Imperial machinery.
The moment it was exposed to the air of the Audience Hall—
A will descended.
A colossal, star-spanning consciousness swept over the chamber.
It did not speak with sound, but thundered directly in every mind capable of awareness, carrying absolute authority and the crushing weight of millennia:
"STUDY IT."
The will emanated from the direction of the Golden Throne—cold, clear, and filled with the faintest, final hope of saving civilization.
Silence fell like death across the hall. Even the Throne's machinery seemed to quiet for a heartbeat.
The Tech-Priests froze.
Sigismund dropped to one knee, head bowed.
Rogal Dorn—the Primarch famed for an iron will unbent by any force—was struck speechless for a moment.
Then he looked once more at the warp-drive core, turned toward the Throne, and bowed deeply, lowering a head he almost never lowered.
"By your command, Father."
The Emperor had spoken personally.
All debate ended at that moment.