Chapter 14: A New Battle

"They're fast," Guilliman said, sitting up straight on his throne.

"They were already en route to support us," Sicarius responded, his voice firm and resolute through the communicator. "Your recovery prompted them to abandon the pursuit of Chaos and reroute to Macragge."

Guilliman nodded slowly.

"They said they could wait," Sicarius continued, "but I thought it wise to inform you first."

"There is much that demands urgent attention in the Imperium," Guilliman replied, "but welcoming loyal warriors from afar—especially now—is a priority. Bring them to the reception hall. I will meet them there."

"As you command, my lord."

With a brief burst of static, the communication ended. Silence returned to the strategium, where data-thinkers processed endless streams of tactical information. But Guilliman was focused inward, contemplating the future.

The seeds had been planted. The new technologies had been passed to Archmagos Cawl. The Reform Council was assembled. Now, the time had come to purge the remnants of Chaos from Ultramar and gradually implement the reforms across the wider Imperium.

One step at a time.

Eventually, he would return to Terra.

There, he would challenge the corrupt High Lords, strip them of their illegitimate authority, and restore order. But that battle was for another day. First, he had to secure his base—his domain.

The Great Rift had been a disaster. It had empowered the Ruinous Powers, fractured the galaxy, and engulfed countless systems in madness. But within disaster, Guilliman saw opportunity. The Rift had also sparked a glimmer of divine awakening in the Emperor—a chance, however remote, for Him to return.

Still, Guilliman was wary.

He respected his father, but he had also lived long enough to understand power. The Emperor's return might not be a blessing. Ten thousand years of godhood could twist even a being like Him. If the Emperor awoke no longer the man he once was—if he saw Guilliman's reforms as betrayal—he might strike down his own son.

The Primarch knew one thing: he had to gather strength before that moment arrived.

In the magnificent corridors of Fortress Hera, more than fifty representatives from various Space Marine Chapters were being led through the ornate promenade. Two Ultramarines in full battle plate served as their escorts, guiding them with silent precision.

The architecture of the fortress was awe-inspiring. Gold and silver carvings adorned the vaulted ceilings, while towering marble columns lined the corridors. Black and white tiles stretched across the floor like a celestial chessboard, their symmetry reflecting the order Guilliman hoped to restore to the Imperium.

"This whole situation feels… unbelievable," muttered one of the delegates—a Librarian, his eyes glowing faintly with psychic energy. He held a scepter topped with a golden skull, ringed by a bone-white halo that crackled with restrained power.

"Nothing is inconceivable," came a reply from a grizzled warrior clad in stark black and white armor. "Everything unfolds as the Emperor wills it."

His face, marred by old battle scars, was set in grim lines. Three service studs—two gold, one silver—were embedded in his skull, symbols of his long and honorable service.

"Mind your tongue," came a sharp warning from the front of the column.

Verano, Captain of the Raven Guard's Silent Company, turned to glare at them. "We stand on Macragge's sacred soil. Speak no ill—or flippancy—of a Primarch here."

The reprimanded warriors fell silent.

Verano resumed his pace, but his eyes continued to study the surroundings. Cobalt blue banners bearing the Ultramarines' omega symbol hung proudly from the walls. Each was embroidered with silver threads forming the crowned Aquila—the Emperor's symbol—at their center.

Lining the path were members of the vaunted Victrix Guard, clad in ironclad Terminator armor that resembled ancient warhorses. Their weapons hummed with barely contained power, each one capable of cutting through tanks, demons, or worse. They stood like statues, alert but motionless.

Verano recognized them from the past—warriors who had accompanied Marneus Calgar during the campaigns beyond the Segmentum Tempestus. These were not mere guards; they were legends in their own right.

The first grand door hissed open with a pneumatic sigh, revealing another chamber filled with Honor Guard veterans. Their presence, their silence, was heavy. Many of these warriors had faced the most nightmarish foes the galaxy could produce—Chaos, xenos, traitor Astartes—and emerged victorious.

From within stepped a figure in resplendent captain's armor.

"Welcome to Macragge," he said.

"Sicarius," Verano replied, saluting sharply. "It is good to see you again."

"And you, Verano. It has been twenty years since our last meeting." Sicarius extended a hand. "We can reminisce later. The Lord of Macragge awaits you. Please—follow me."

He led them down one final corridor.

Every step brought them closer to something impossible. Despite their legendary discipline, some among them felt a creeping nervousness. Helmets were removed, expressions set. A few muttered prayers to the Emperor, steeling themselves.

At last, the final doors—each several meters high, inlaid with gold Aquilae and etched with scripture—groaned open.

Inside the audience chamber, time seemed to slow.

A throne of pure adamantium stood at the far end, adorned with relics of ancient glory. Upon it sat a giant clad in blue and gold—the living embodiment of Imperial Majesty.

Roboute Guilliman.

The Lord of Ultramar.

The Primarch.

He radiated power. His features were regal and noble—sharply defined, ageless, yet burdened with experience. One arm was encased in a massive gauntlet, the other rested near a sheathed power sword whose mere presence seemed to warp the air around it.

Verano felt his breath catch in his throat. He had seen the Primarch once before, sealed in stasis after the battle with Fulgrim, barely a second from death. But now—now he was alive.

Tears welled in Verano's eyes.

Others dropped to one knee instinctively. Words failed them. A living myth had returned. A son of the Emperor. The one who had once led legions, shaped the Imperium itself—and might do so again.

"It is true," Verano whispered, barely audible. "You have risen, my lord."

His voice trembled—not from fear, but from awe.

Guilliman stepped down from the throne and walked toward them. His every movement was fluid, deliberate—almost serene in its control.

"Rise, all of you," he said. "You are defenders of humanity. Heroes of the Imperium. There is no need to kneel before me."

He stopped in front of Verano and gently took him by the shoulders.

"What is your name?"

"Verano. Raven Guard. Captain of the Silent Company."

"A fine title. It's good to meet you, Captain."

"The honor is mine, Lord Guilliman."

"I hope so," Guilliman said with a small smile. "I feared you might deny me. That would have been quite a headache."

"There is no such possibility," Verano replied without hesitation. "We will fight in your name."

Guilliman chuckled and patted him on the shoulder. "Soon you will have the chance to prove that. Let's hope you don't disappoint me."

He moved among the gathered Space Marines, greeting each personally. There were warriors from the Raven Guard, Space Wolves, White Scars, and successors descended from various Legions. They had come from across the stars, drawn by the beacon of Guilliman's return.

He praised their deeds, honored their sacrifices, and brought warmth to an otherwise solemn moment. The room, filled with some of the Imperium's most elite warriors, felt lighter with every exchange.

Then, Guilliman's tone shifted.

"I should offer you rest after your long journey," he said. "But the Imperium affords us no such luxury. Chaos is on the move. Xenos threats grow bolder. We have no time."

His gaze swept across them.

"I must stabilize Ultramar. Only then can I proceed to the next phase of my reforms. The fleet is assembling. Our armies are being mustered. I ask you now—will you honor your oaths and join me in this war?"

The room fell into respectful silence.

But in their eyes—there burned fire.

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