If given the choice, who would willingly bear the stigma of "traitor"? Who would choose to be misunderstood by their battle-brothers and cast away the honor they had spent lifetimes earning?
During the Horus Heresy, a portion of the First Legion on Caliban were indeed swayed by Luther's rebellion. But when the dust settled and Caliban was shattered, the "Unforgiven" made no distinction between the arch-traitors and those who had simply been caught on the wrong side of a communication blackout.
To the modern Dark Angels, any warrior of the old Legion not accounted for was "Fallen"—a stain to be scrubbed from existence at all costs.
This was the Chapter's greatest shame, a secret protected by the blood of anyone who dared investigate it. Not even the Inquisition was safe from the Dark Angels' obsession.
Yet, among the Fallen, there remained those like Olsen—warriors who were not true traitors to the Throne, but victims of a ten-millennium-old misunderstanding, scattered across the stars and longing for the honor they had lost.
Now, Emrys had offered them a flicker of hope. He wasn't just offering safety; he was offering a path to redemption that bypassed the Interrogator's rack.
A huge profit, Emrys thought. He didn't need to resolve the internal schism of the First Legion himself—that was a task only a Primarch could handle.
He just needed to keep them alive and fighting until Lion El'Jonson returned to heal the wound in his Legion. Until then, Emrys would have a unit of elite, pre-heresy veterans at his beck and call.
"I am willing... to join you," Olsen said.
He had no other choice. Even if he were ready to embrace death, he could not condemn his brothers. Resistance was futile; a single high-tier psyker could shatter their defenses, and Emrys had brought two—one of whom was an Alpha-grade anomaly capable of crushing a Chapter as easily as an insect.
"I, Olsen, commander of this brotherhood of one hundred and eighty battle-brothers, swear to join your command," Olsen said, rising slowly and striking his breastplate in a crisp, military salute. His aged face was set with grim determination. "I hold you to your word, Rogue Trader. Lead us to the day of our forgiveness."
The oath was struck. In the First Legion, the word of a Commander was absolute. Even those who harbored doubts looked to Olsen as a father figure; where he led, they would follow.
"Since you are embarking on a Crusade of Atonement, the name 'Fallen' is no longer yours to bear," Emrys said, pacing the dusty floor of the laboratory. "From this day forth, you shall be known as the Dawn Watch."
"The watch before the dawn..." Olsen murmured, a new light catching in his bionic eye. "A fitting name. We shall be the sentinels in the darkness, waiting for the return of the sun."
The name rippled through the gathered warriors. For the first time in centuries, their hearts beat with a purpose beyond simple survival.
"I will have my Tech-Priests coordinate a new livery for your plate," Emrys said, turning his gaze toward the massive structure at the heart of the chamber. "Now, let's talk about the Void Claw. This is a relic of the Dark Age, capable of generating localized singularities, is it not?"
"It is," Olsen confirmed. "The surviving data describes it as a high-energy physics array. It projects a beam of fragmented spatiotemporal energy to a fixed coordinate, bypassing void shields and physical bulkheads to collapse the target into a micro-singularity. It is a world-killer in the wrong hands."
"And you were going to give this to Abaddon?" Emrys asked.
"As a bargaining chip for our survival," Olsen admitted, shame coloring his voice.
"Then we shall turn that bargain into a trap. In your communications with the Despoiler, did he provide his arrival coordinates?"
Olsen shook his head. "Abaddon is as cunning as he is cruel. He never reveals his exit-warp coordinates until the final moment. He does not trust us."
"Then we must give him a reason to trust us," Emrys said, a sharp, fox-like smile spreading across his face. "If he won't tell us where he's appearing, we'll simply make sure he appears exactly where we want him."
Hilda, standing nearby, covered her face with her hand. "Here we go again. Someone is about to have a very bad century."
"A reason he can't refuse?" Olsen frowned. "What could possibly entice the Despoiler to abandon his caution and walk into a pre-set coordinate?"
"Simple, Commander," Emrys' eyes gleamed with a dangerous light. "What if Abaddon received intelligence that the Chapter Master of the Ultramarines, Marneus Calgar, was vulnerable at a specific location? Would the Despoiler be able to resist the chance to take the head of the Lord of Macragge?"
The room went deathly silent. Even the Fallen, who had lived through the Horace Heresy, looked at Emrys with pure horror.
"Are you insane?" Olsen gasped, his voice cracking. "You would use a Chapter Master—the Regent's own son—as bait? If the Ultramarines find out, they won't just kill you; they'll erase your entire dynasty from history!"
"It's not treason if it works," Emrys shrugged, already visualizing the orbital trajectories. "Don't be afraid, Olsen. I'm not going to let Calgar die. I'm just going to give Abaddon the grandest welcoming party the Black Legion has ever seen."
Olsen was speechless. He suddenly realized that while the Fallen were considered "dangerous," this Rogue Trader was a different breed of threat entirely.
"Following you," Olsen muttered, "might be more hazardous than running from the Dark Angels."