Across the Imperium, Knight Houses vary wildly in their degree of autonomy. Some, like the ancient and proud House Krast, operate with significant independence, bound by ancient oaths of fealty. Others are little more than indentured vassals to the Titan Legions, deployed as expendable outriders for the God-Machines.
The "Free Blades" Herbert spoke of were the anomalies. Whether driven by a loss of honor, the destruction of their lineage, or a refusal to bow to a corrupt High King, these wandering knights abandoned their houses to roam the stars. They were ghosts in the machine, intervening in war zones across the galaxy based on nothing but their own inscrutable whims.
But Herbert did not look like a man broken by shame or tragedy.
Emrys studied him, his brow furrowed in genuine confusion. Herbert had fought with distinction. There was no tactical failure, no cowardice. So why the sudden exile?
"You were cast out? Right after the victory?" Emrys asked. "There must be a reason. What did you do to provoke the High King?"
Herbert's lips twitched, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing his handsome features. "Do you want the official record, or the truth?"
"Give me both."
"The official record," Herbert sighed, looking resentfully at the ceiling, "is that I, Herbert of House Krast, publicly insulted the High King and brought shame upon our lineage, resulting in my immediate strike from the rolls of the House, never to return."
"And the insult?"
"I called him a stubborn old fossil who cares more about parchment than plasma fire. To be fair, the charge is technically accurate."
Emrys stared at him. "And the truth?"
"The truth is, I don't entirely know." Herbert looked uncharacteristically somber for a moment, his gaze dropping. "I am his son. To cast me out over a few sharp words... it feels extreme, even for him. I suspect the 'Old Fossil' has lost his mind."
"You are the High King's son?" Emrys's eyes widened.
"The seventeenth son," Herbert clarified with an indifferent shrug. "I'm a spare, born of a collateral bloodline. My exile doesn't cost the House much in the way of succession."
"You don't seem particularly devastated," Emrys noted. He could see Herbert was struggling to suppress a grin. "Your acting needs work, Herbert."
"Devastated? I've been praying for this!" Herbert leaned forward, his eyes bright. "Do you have any idea what it's like to wake at the fourth bell every morning to recite ten thousand years of 'Honored Ancestry' while the galaxy is burning? I wanted freedom. I just didn't expect it to come so easily."
Emrys pinched the bridge of his nose. He suspected the High King had deeper motives—perhaps protecting his son from some looming political shadow—but for now, the result was the same.
"Why me?" Emrys asked, his voice turning serious. "If it's freedom you want, a Free Blade is beholden to no one. Why join a fledgling retinue like ours?"
A different kind of light entered Herbert's emerald eyes—a hunger, sharp and predatory. He licked his lips. "Because following you... things stay interesting."
"Interesting?"
"You stood against a Lord of Chaos and forced a stalemate. You carry a blade that bleeds warp-fire. My intuition tells me that you are a catalyst, Emrys. Great things happen in your wake."
"And your ambition?"
"I want to found a new House," Herbert said, his voice dropping to a low, ambitious growl. "A house that will eclipse the Krast in glory. I know I have no path to the throne in my father's court. But under your banner, I can win the kind of victories that force the High Lords of Terra to grant me a charter of my own."
Emrys watched him for a long moment, then extended his hand. "I will help you find your throne, Herbert. But in exchange, I require your absolute loyalty. Your life and your blade belong to me."
Herbert bowed his head, his voice solemn. "I swear upon my knightly honor. I shall be the sharpest blade in your service, never retreating, never faltering. My life is yours to command."
As Herbert left—claiming he needed to "reclaim some gear" from his father before the House fleet departed—Emrys felt a rare moment of optimism. He finally had a Knight in his service. The pieces were falling into place.
But the moment was short-lived. Jackal burst into the room, looking pale, and thrust a heavy, wax-sealed parchment into Emrys's hand.
Emrys's heart hammered against his ribs as he read the signature.
Marneus Calgar, Chapter Master of the Ultramarines and Lord Macragge.
"Why wasn't I told that the Ultramarines were in system?" Emrys demanded, looking up at Jackal.
"I thought you knew," Jackal said, scratching the back of his neck. "How else do you think the Knight House arrived so fast? Calgar himself requested their deployment to secure the sector."
Emrys felt a cold sweat break out. Marneus Calgar—the Lord of the 500 Worlds, a Living Saint of the Imperium's military logistics, and a man whose tactical genius was matched only by his unwavering devotion to the Codex Astartes.
The "Steward of Ultramar" did not move his fleet for minor skirmishes. If he was here, on Siluria, it wasn't for a simple meet-and-greet.
"Is he holding me accountable for the Warp rift?" Emrys whispered to himself. He had excuses prepared, but lying to a Chapter Master of the First Founding was a death sentence if caught. Calgar's political and military acumen was legendary; he didn't do anything without a purpose.
Emrys clutched the invitation, looking toward the highest spires of the hive city where the Ultramarines' strike cruisers hovered like vengeful gods.
"If it's a blessing, it's a miracle," Emrys muttered. "If it's a judgment... there is nowhere left to run."