The summons came before dawn, though on Terra it was impossible to tell what dawn meant anymore. The ash had never stopped falling, turning every hour into a variant of twilight. The sky was a lid of bruised smoke, and the sun's warmth had long since been forgotten.
Kael Varan had slept—if it counted as sleep—leaning against a cracked column deep within the Palace, helm off, eyes half-open, his senses drifting in a haze of exhaustion. The data-slate Malcador had entrusted to him lay sealed inside a mag-lock pouch on his belt, heavy as a destiny he hadn't asked for.
When the messenger arrived, Kael knew before the first word was spoken.
"Captain Varan," the aide said, voice rough, uniform torn. "The Council convenes. They… require you."
Not invite.
Not request.
Require.
Kael stood without a word. The Silent Company stirred around him, weary shapes rising from where they had rested—sixty-three men left from more than two hundred. Their black armor blended with the shadows around them until they stepped forward and caught the faint, flickering light.
Malchion stepped close. "Alone?"
"Yes," Kael said.
Joras grunted. "They'll want a scapegoat."
"They'll get a reminder," Kael replied.
He left them behind and walked the corridors alone.
---
The strategium approach looked worse by the hour. Groaning buttresses propped up failing archways. Frescoes once depicting the glory of the Unification now lay flaked and blistered. Blood Angels, White Scars, and Fists guarded the entrances, all too exhausted to hide their fear or distrust.
The White Scar at the inner door studied Kael a moment too long.
"Night's Child," he said, not insultingly but not warmly either.
Kael inclined his head. "Rider."
The man stepped aside.
The doors ground open.
Kael entered the chamber of the Council of Wounds.
It was dimly lit, the great holo-table flickering like a dying heartbeat. The air stank of burnt circuitry, promethium, and half-cleaned blood. The vaulted ceiling had collapsed in places, letting ash filter in like a light snowfall.
The Primarchs stood around the table.
Guilliman: straight-backed, weary, jaw set in the iron discipline of a man refusing to break.
Dorn: a stone statue cracked by grief, armor dented, eyes dark hollows.
Corax: lean as a blade, shadows clinging to him like feathers.
Khan: arms folded, scars still fresh, gaze sharp beneath the storm.
Lords Militant. Mechanicum Magi. Custodes watching everything with impassive gold faces.
The room fell quiet when Kael crossed the threshold.
His boots left faint ash prints on the cracked marble floor. He stopped several meters from the table, helm held at his hip.
"Captain Kael Varan," Guilliman said. His tone was carefully neutral. "What remains of the Eighth Legion stands before us."
Kael inclined his head. "What remains stands."
Dorn stepped forward immediately—blunt, uncompromising.
"Let us begin with the obvious," he said. "The Night's Children cannot remain as a Legion. Their legacy is tainted beyond recovery. Their father destroyed an entire world to make a point."
Corax's voice followed, smooth but cold. "And the Imperium bleeds enough without shadows of the Eighth stirring old terror."
Khan added: "Fear is a weapon. But in the wrong hands—"
Kael's voice cut through the air. "You speak of wrong hands. I speak of empty ones."
They turned toward him.
He felt their eyes like weights.
"You forget," Kael said, "that we bled beside you. That we died beside you. That we kept your walls standing when you were moments from losing them."
Dorn's eyes narrowed. "We acknowledge your service. But the question is not gratitude. It is survival."
"And you think I threaten that," Kael said.
"We think," Guilliman said carefully, "that remnants of the Eighth Legion—unmoored from their Primarch and born of Nostramo's legacy—must not be permitted to act without oversight."
Kael reached down slowly—deliberate, controlled—and drew Malcador's dataslate from the mag-locked pouch.
The room's tension sharpened like a spear.
Dorn stiffened. Corax shifted his stance. Even the Custodians leaned imperceptibly forward.
Guilliman's brow furrowed. "What is that?"
Kael held it up, the etched sigil faintly glowing: the stylized eye of the Sigillite, burned into the casing with intentional force.
"A gift," Kael said, "delivered to me by a dying servitor. From a man who gave everything you did—and more—and asked nothing in return."
He tapped the slate.
The hologram flickered into life.
Malcador appeared, aged, ash on his shoulders, the shadows of the Golden Throne behind him.
The room froze.
> "If you are hearing this," Malcador said softly, "then Terra has endured its darkest hour.
And the arguing has begun."
Primarchs who had faced gods and monsters stood still.
> "I entrust this writ to Kael Varan," Malcador said, eyes sharp even in weakness, "because he remembers what this Imperium was built for."
Dorn's jaw clenched. Guilliman inhaled sharply. Corax bowed his head.
Kael advanced the hologram a moment further.
> "This authority is to supersede all others save that of the Emperor Himself.
Not the Primarchs. Not the Councils.
Not future proxies wearing borrowed crowns."
A ripple went through the room.
Kael continued playing.
> "Hidden within this writ is one clause, known only to its bearer:
Kael Varan is empowered to refuse any order—military, strategic, political—if that order endangers mankind or perverts the Imperium's founding purpose."
The holo dimmed slightly.
> "You will know when to use it," Malcador whispered.
"When pride blinds sons.
When fear guides councils.
When truth grows inconvenient."
Kael stopped the recording.
Silence hit the room like a hammer.
He lowered the slate.
"That is why I am here," Kael said quietly.
Dorn's eyes burned with conflict. "The Sigillite presumed much."
"He saw clearly," Kael said. "In ways none of us wanted him to."
Corax stepped forward. "You claim this authority?"
"I claim nothing," Kael said. "Malcador granted. I obey. As I always have."
"Then what do you intend?" Guilliman asked, voice low.
Kael looked at each of them.
"You are not infallible," he said simply.
The words landed like a strike.
"You are powerful," Kael continued. "You are brilliant. You are weapons the Emperor forged to unify mankind."
He stepped closer.
"But even weapons can break. And some of you have."
Dorn flinched. Slightly—but he flinched.
"You will fracture the Legiones Astartes," Kael said. "You will reshape the Imperium. You will argue. You will blame. You will scream at each other over the ashes of all we built."
He tapped the slate.
"And I will be here. With this."
Guilliman's voice dropped to a whisper. "A check."
"A balance," Kael said. "Not a throne. Not a crown. A responsibility."
Corax's eyes narrowed. "And your brothers? Your future warriors? Will they be Night's Children reborn?"
Kael shook his head.
"No. The Night's Children died on Nostramo. Curze killed them long before the Heresy. What remains now is something new."
Guilliman studied him. "And its name?"
Kael didn't hesitate.
"The Watchers in Shadow."
Dorn exhaled slowly. "And who do these Watchers answer to?"
Kael's answer was iron.
"To the Emperor alone."
Guilliman considered it a long moment. "And if His proxies attempt to misuse you?"
Kael tilted the slate slightly. "Malcador anticipated that."
Khan let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "Of course he did."
Corax stepped closer, tilting his head as if measuring Kael's weight in the world.
"And what will you watch for, Kael Varan?"
Kael met his gaze without blinking.
"For the day any one of you—Primarch, Lord Commander, Ecclesiarch-to-come, High Lord—tries to shape the Imperium into something built on fear instead of hope."
Dorn swallowed something hard.
"And if that day comes?" he asked.
Kael's shadow shifted faintly at his feet.
"Then I will refuse."
The words echoed through the chamber—the voice of a man who had walked through fire and come out colder.
Guilliman was the first to nod.
"Then let it be so," he said quietly. "Let the Watchers in Shadow stand as the Sigillite intended. Not as heirs of Curze, but as guardians of the truth we have forgotten."
Dorn's assent came slower, heavy with old bitterness and new understanding.
Corax bowed his head, feathers of shadow drifting. "A necessary darkness."
Khan smiled faintly, admiration in his eyes. "A shadow that bites."
Kael bowed—not as a subordinate, but as one accepting a burden no one else wanted.
He turned to leave.
Behind him, Guilliman spoke softly:
"Kael Varan… remind us, when we forget."
Kael didn't look back.
"I will."
And the night followed him out of the chamber.