A sheer, unbridled force of will was descending upon Hera's Fortress. It was a power so immense and bright, like a supernova in the void, that any individual with the psychic gift or the Witchsight could feel its presence.
At that moment, Celestine was among the suffering populace. The Chaos horde had put Macragge City through the wringer, forcing countless citizens to flee their homes and seek refuge within Hera's Fortress, where they were now refugees housed in makeshift shelters. Due to a severe lack of water, many hadn't bathed in days. Their faces were smeared with dirt, and their clothes were rank.
Celestine, however, showed no trace of disgust. She leveraged her influence to procure clean water and food, distributing the supplies personally. She was assisted by the twin Battle-Sisters, Eleanor and Genevieve, who led the Order of the Martyrs of Saint Mary. The refugees lined up in long, orderly queues to receive the gifts.
"Praise be to the God-Emperor," Celestine prayed tirelessly with every person she served.
The refugees, their faces etched with gratitude, performed the Imperial salute and offered their own praises to the Emperor. This was precisely what Celestine aimed to do: spread the kindness and glory of the God-Emperor to every last one of His subjects.
Suddenly, Celestine felt a gentle tug on her wings. Turning, she saw a thin boy, about eight or nine years old, his hair matted and his appearance slovenly—clearly, he hadn't washed in ages. The boy had a pair of big, remarkably bright eyes. Trailing behind him was a smaller figure, perhaps two or three years old.
"How dare you disrespect the Saint?" Eleanor strode forward, the servo joints of her Power Armor humming menacingly. The veteran Sister of Battle glared down at the child, her hawk-like gaze enough to make even a Chaos cultist tremble in their boots.
The two children froze. Not far away, a woman who bore a resemblance to the children went white as a sheet, her body going limp as she collapsed to the ground, sobbing.
"Don't scare them." Celestine held up a hand, stopping Eleanor from frightening the child. She then knelt on one knee, bringing her eyes level with the boy's, and reached out to gently straighten his tattered clothes. "What is your name, little one? What can I do for you?"
"My name is Darak. I wanted to ask if you're an angel?" the boy asked, mustering his courage.
Celestine smiled. "Yes, you can think of me as an angel."
"Then can you take a message to my Mum and Dad?" The little boy looked up hopefully.
"Where are they?" Celestine asked patiently.
A flicker of sadness crossed the boy's face. "When the bad guys attacked, Mum and Dad went to fight with the other uncles to protect us. But after the battle, they never came back for us. My aunt said they were taken away by the Emperor."
The boy's words melted the ice in Eleanor's eyes. The same was true for the other Battle-Sisters. Children orphaned because their parents served the Emperor deserved a touch of tenderness.
"Everyone says you are the Emperor's angel, so can you deliver a message for me?" Darak asked.
Celestine patted the boy's head. "What message do you want me to take?"
"Tell Mum and Dad not to worry. I will protect my little sister. When I grow up, I will be as brave as you."
The boy's words made Celestine's smile widen. "I'll deliver your message. Remember, Darak: a big brother must always protect his little sister."
Having received the Living Saint's promise, the little boy happily rushed into his aunt's arms, dragging his sister along. The woman, still shaken, quickly hugged both children.
The people around began to whisper and discuss the touching scene. Celestine was about to seize the opportunity to read the God-Emperor's teachings and bolster their faith when she suddenly looked up toward the spire of Hera's Fortress, her expression utterly focused.
"My Lord!" she exclaimed excitedly.
She took a few steps, jumped, spread her wings, and soared toward the fortress spire. The Battle-Sisters exchanged glances, then followed the Saint's path.
Elsewhere, the Grey Knights Grand Masters, Voldus and Tigurius, were deep in discussion about the relentless Daemon incursions in Ultramar. They, too, felt that terrifying will and exchanged shocked looks.
"What a potent will!" Voldus exclaimed, stunned.
Both his and Tigurius's psychic power were top-shelf in the entire galaxy. They were confident they could hold their own against even the likes of Eldrad and other Aeldari prophets. Yet, facing this galaxy-shaking will, they felt like fireflies squaring off against the sun—they couldn't even muster a thought of resistance.
"Is this the power of the God-Emperor?"
Voldus walked to the window, where he could just see the very top of Hera's Fortress. The source of that will was there; the Primarch was there.
"I wonder what the Primarch did to establish contact with His Majesty," Tigurius mused.
Voldus turned and strode toward the door. "Whatever he did, we need to haul anchor immediately. The God-Emperor may be offering guidance or enlightenment."
Tigurius followed him out, simultaneously opening a secure vox-channel to Chapter Master Calgar. "Master, you must return to the Primarch immediately. The God-Emperor may have issued a decree."
In a secluded corner of Macragge City, Eldrad, Yvraine, the Masque of the Thousand Faces, and the other Aeldari who had not yet departed, also felt the power descending upon Hera's Fortress. It was so potent, so magnificent—enough to utterly wreck everything in the galaxy.
"This psychic pressure is even greater than what we felt when the Incarnate of Ynnead was born," Yvraine said, nervously pacing back and forth. The Ynnari had paid the devastating price of the destruction of the Biel-Tan craftworld. Yet, the summoned Incarnate of the God of the Dead, Ynnead, was far less powerful than the will they were now sensing. This power was, to be precise, no less than that of the four Chaos Gods in the Warp.
"Has the Lord of Humanity become so powerful?" the Masque of the Thousand Faces wore a look of palpable worry.
It seemed the Eye of Terror hadn't just unleashed the Chaos Gods; it had also unleashed the Lord of Humanity on the Golden Throne.
"They have the Lord of Humanity and a C'tan that hasn't fully awakened. Is cooperating with humans really going to pan out for us?" Yvraine was deeply concerned about the future. Even if they defeated the Prince of Pleasure, humanity would seize the moment to become the galaxy's ultimate overlord. By then, the Aeldari would likely be relegated to a small, fringe race.
"Do we have any other play?" Eldrad remained utterly composed. "The last Crone Sword lies in Slaanesh's domain. We either retrieve the Crone Sword, or we sacrifice the entire Aeldari race. Which will you choose?"
The question silenced Yvraine and the Masque. Sacrificing the entire Aeldari race was impossible. Reclaiming the Crone Sword absolutely required the Imperium's help.
"As long as the threat of the God of Lust is resolved, what's the harm in temporarily ceding the galaxy to humanity?" Eldrad looked earnestly at his kin. "Think carefully about the past glory of the Aeldari Empire.
We could control stars at will and gaze upon fate and causality. Frankly, the Aeldari Empire was too powerful to be destroyed by external threats. Because of the sheer abundance of resources, individuals were free to choose any path they desired, leading to no internal conflict we couldn't resolve. Yet, even that invincible empire was ultimately destroyed."
"It ended in a tragic self-immolation, tearing the Eye of Terror open in the galaxy. Even if humans control the entire galaxy, what good will it do them? They may rule for a hundred thousand, a million, or ten million years, but they, too, will eventually perish. Just like the Aeldari Empire back then, they will fall apart in a way no one could have imagined, meeting a tragic end."
"Our goal at this stage is survival. Stay alive, preserve our race and our civilization, and wait for the day the Imperium falls." Eldrad's gaze was hard. "Remember our ultimate purpose: to use humans to retrieve the Crone Sword that fell into Slaanesh's realm.
There is no need to harbor resentment toward humanity just because they are powerful. We should, in fact, actively help them grow stronger so they have the power to challenge the Gods."
The Masque, Yvraine, and the other Aeldari couldn't punch holes in Eldrad's logic. They had been jumping the gun, forgetting the existential threat facing their race.
"We will keep our eyes on the prize," Yvraine promised. "I will never intentionally cause destruction just because humans become stronger." The others nodded, agreeing with her pledge.
Seeing his kinsfolk reach an understanding, Eldrad showed a look of relief. He raised his head, his ancient eyes filled with wisdom looking toward the ceiling. Gazing through the steel and ceramite, he saw the black sun, golden light bleeding from its edges, suspended in the roiling Warp.
"Lord of Humanity, Lord of Darkness, I only hope that everything proceeds as smoothly as fate foretells."
The Emperor's Shrine was flooded with blinding golden light. Guilliman's psychic potential was relatively modest among the Primarchs, but he was the Emperor's son, and he could sense the omnipresent spiritual energy.
As the psychic power intensified around him, Guilliman flinched in pain. The body of the Cherubim was glowing, consumed by golden fire. Daniel's body was also radiating light; he was being used as a psychic buffer. Nothing mortal could bear the fullness of the Emperor's will. If Daniel were not there, the sheer psychic force would likely burn out the souls of everyone on the planet, leaving them as pious husks.
The Emperor's power was so immense that it was at the breaking point, teetering on the edge of utter chaos.
"Father!" Guilliman cried out, his control shattering.
"My last loyal heir, my pride, my greatest triumph."
"My last instrument, my last hope."
A thousand voices echoed simultaneously in Guilliman's mind. He heard them all at once, yet understood nothing. The Emperor spoke to him but did not speak; the concept of language became meaningless.
That crushing will seemed to be striving with everything it had to communicate with Guilliman, yet at the same time, it seemed utterly indifferent to him.
Countless images flooded Guilliman's spiritual world: Flames burning, stars collapsing, monsters screaming behind the veil of reality. Guilliman heard the prayers—men and women, young and old, of every description. They begged, they cried, they waited for the Emperor to save them.
Guilliman saw the Crimson Worlds erupt in war, where mortal soldiers called out the Emperor's name as they fell in piles of enemy dead. He saw Sisters of Battle fighting tooth and nail against tides of heresy. He saw the loyal Astartes fighting to the bitter end. He saw Sanguinius's home planet under siege by countless aliens.
Guilliman witnessed everything that had happened in the galaxy: a terrifying dark landscape, utterly devoid of hope or light. Human civilization had reached the precipice of annihilation.
The suffering of countless mortals assaulted Guilliman's soul, forcing him to share the burden and the searing agony. What an impossible load—one that even a god should not have to bear. And his Father, the Great Lord of Mankind—the man denounced by traitors as a despicable liar—had endured it for ten thousand years.
"He can't control his own power," Guilliman came to a horrifying realization. He had no idea what had happened during those ten millennia. The Emperor was not dead, but He was not fully present either. He seemed trapped between life and death, constantly on the brink of returning or remaining seated forever.
The Emperor's will did not last long. Nothing could withstand His full force indefinitely. Passing this much information to Guilliman was the limit; to continue, He would have to sacrifice countless lives on Macragge.
Just as Celestine rushed in, the Cherubim turned to face her and then dissolved into a pile of ash.
"Praise the God-Emperor," Celestine declared, performing the Aquila salute and praying devoutly.
The power of the God-Emperor dissipated, and that terrifying will receded like the tide, as if it had never been there at all.
"Saint, what oracle did the God-Emperor send down?" Eleanor's voice came from behind her.