Resurrection

THEMYSCIRA – CAVE INTERIOR

Antiope recoiled sharply, her eyes wide with raw horror. The color drained from her face as she instinctively took a defensive stance, every muscle tense, her warrior instincts flaring.

Hippolyta and Agape also stepped back reflexively—less from fear than from caution. They had seen this towering being before… but only clad in his massive golden armor. Now, before them, he stood unarmored and entirely bare, his immense form exposed to the mist and light.

The giant regarded them in silence, his red-irised eyes gleaming with an almost childlike curiosity. Then, without warning, he began to move forward—each step deliberate, weighty.

Thud. Splash. Thud.

Antiope's panic spiked. Her breathing quickened.

"It's… it's fine," Agape tried to reassure her, glancing nervously at the imposing figure. "He is… an ally."

Antiope didn't respond. Her eyes remained locked on the giant as she spoke directly to Hippolyta, panic in her voice.

"What in Hades have you brought here?"

Before the queen could answer, a voice boomed across the cavern. It was not Hippolyta who spoke.

"There is no need to fear."

All three Amazons turned, stunned, toward the source of the voice.

"You… you speak our tongue?" Agape asked, eyes wide, her voice faltering.

"What are you talking about?" Antiope asked, utterly confused.

"He couldn't speak in our tongue yesterday," Hippolyta answered quietly, narrowing her eyes at the figure in the mist. "Now he can…"

Atrius tilted his head toward Agape, then looked down at his naked form.

"Forgive my violation of your social customs," he said in a deep, even voice. He slowly stepped back into the steaming pond, concealing his body beneath the rising fog.

"But how did you know?" Agape asked, lips parted in disbelief.

"I perceived it… from how you observed me," Atrius replied, voice calm as stone.

"You comprehend our tongue now? Were you deceiving us yesterday?" Hippolyta demanded, her tone firm.

Atrius met her gaze.

"There was no deception. I studied your language through the night."

The women exchanged uncertain glances.

"…How?" Hippolyta asked, folding her arms.

"I perceived and observed the thoughts and memories of those on this island," Atrius said simply, "and from them, I learned."

"You read their minds?" Agape asked, her tone rising slightly in disbelief.

"Affirmative," Atrius said, nodding once.

At that, all three women tensed. Their bodies shifted—shoulders squared, hands instinctively hovering near their weapons.

"How dare you violate our minds?" Antiope growled, anger overtaking her fear.

Atrius tilted his head again, confused. Then he spoke, slowly, as if clarifying for children.

"Your hostility is understandable—but misdirected. I did not seek your secrets. I merely extracted the necessary information to understand your language. Be grateful I was merciful—for my presence alone within your fragile minds could have destroyed you."

The women flinched as one, a tremor of dread passing between them.

"Are you threatening us?" Hippolyta asked darkly.

"This is not a threat. I have no need to threaten mortals," Atrius replied, leaning back into the warmth of the pond's steam.

Mortals…? Agape thought. Then… he is no man.

Stepping forward cautiously, Agape bowed her head ever so slightly.

"We apologize for our manners, I am Agape. You already know our queen, Hippolyta. And this is Antiope." Her voice was formal now, reverent. Of all present, she had witnessed his power firsthand—she knew what he was capable of.

Hippolyta glanced at her, lips drawn into a firm line.

"Agape… what are you—"

Hippolyta raised her hand, silencing Antiope.

"May I ask your name?" she said instead, addressing the colossus.

The red eyes blinked once.

"I am Atrius, Custodian of the Emperor of Mankind," he declared.

The title meant nothing to them.

"…The Emperor of Mankind?" Hippolyta echoed, confused.

"I see. You are unfamiliar with what I speak of," Atrius continued. "Then allow me a question in turn: where is this place… and where are your men?"

The three Amazons exchanged puzzled glances.

Custodes… Master of Mankind? All three thought the same thing—Zeus?

"This is Themyscira," Hippolyta explained. "Home of the Amazons. There are no men here. We are a society of women."

"A society of women… as I perceived," Atrius mused. "Indeed, I noted the absence of males on this island—aside from the prisoners below. Is this cave a dungeon?"

The question put them on edge.

"There is no offense intended," Atrius said quickly, sensing their tension. "I understand."

Hippolyta spoke again, her tone level.

"This was the only place we could think of. The only place… large enough to house you."

Antiope's brows furrowed, still dazed by all she was hearing and seeing. Her eyes drifted toward the shadowed giant, still half-obscured by mist.

"I cannot remain here," Atrius said suddenly. "I shall leave once my armor is repaired. You have my thanks for your hospitality."

The women turned to look at the pile of broken golden plates and tattered crimson cloth near the pond's edge.

"You mentioned 'island'," Agape said, her voice hesitant. "Does that mean… you can see past the enchantment surrounding Themyscira?"

"Indeed. Nothing is hidden from me," Atrius replied calmly.

At that, Hippolyta's eyes widened ever so slightly.

HOLY TERRA – DUNGEON PASSAGES

Imperial Palace

Golden light glinted off the armor of the Custodian as he strode through the dimly lit catacombs of the Imperial Dungeon. At his side walked a smaller figure, hunched beneath a deep, shadowed hood.

Valdor and Malcador.

The Emperor was absent.

"It's been long since I saw Him like that," Malcador murmured. "I had nearly forgotten… that He is human."

Valdor nodded. "Indeed. So much time has passed that even my image of Him has blurred. He feels… different."

"Have you finished reviewing Atrius' dossier?" Malcador asked.

"I have. He truly is an anomaly. But with his help, we've struck a decisive blow against our greatest foe. If only he were still here—we might ensure final victory."

"You are wrong," Malcador said quietly. "Neither I nor the Emperor know what the cost will be. We do not yet understand what his power may awaken—or consume. Perhaps it is best that he is not on Terra."

Valdor stopped walking.

"You still went through with the plan? What if we never recover him?" he asked, his tone sharp with alarm.

"Worry not," Malcador replied, continuing his stride. "The Emperor has his ways. Our task is to prepare—to reclaim what was lost in millennia past. The time of resurrection."

The dark folds of his cloak swallowed the passage's light as he vanished into the depths.

Ultramar, Fortress-Monastery of Roboute Guilliman

Within the sanctified vaults deep beneath the Fortress of Hera, silence was broken by the soft whirring of arcane life-support systems. The great chamber—once a shrine of mourning—was now a place of hope… and tremor.

A hundred tech-priests and adepts of the Mechanicus moved about with reverent precision, their red robes flowing like blood across the cold marble. Incense choked the air, thick and heady with the scent of sacred unguents and Martian oils. Above them towered the massive stasis sarcophagus—its surface covered in golden inscriptions and Ultramar sigils, once still, now trembling faintly.

Around the sarcophagus, the faithful knelt in prayer: Sisters of Battle murmuring litanies, warriors of the Adeptus Astartes standing vigil, and the ever-watchful Belisarius Cawl—his mechanical tendrils twitching, luminous eyes gleaming with barely-contained triumph.

Then—it happened.

A crack.

Barely audible over the sacred chants, but unmistakable. The reinforced stasis field flickered. Warning runes pulsed. Sacred machinery surged with fresh power.

Saint Celestine, wreathed in holy light, stepped forward, her eyes wide.

The runes flared.

The vault shook.

A blinding burst of light erupted from the chamber's heart as the sarcophagus split open with a hiss of escaping pressure. Vapour poured from the breach like breath from a god's lungs.

And within it…

A figure stirred.

First, a hand—armored in ancient ceramite, bearing the heraldry of Ultramar, trembled and lifted.

Then the figure rose—slowly, with the weight of ten thousand years anchoring every motion. His eyes snapped open, glowing with newfound life and searing purpose.

Roboute Guilliman had awakened.

The Primarch of the XIII Legion stepped forward, supported at first by the servos of the armor Cawl had reforged for him. His expression was one of confusion… and pain.

"Where... am I?"

The chamber fell silent.

Celestine stepped forward. "You are among the living once more, Lord Guilliman. The Imperium needs you."

He gazed at her. At the astartes. At the banners of his Legion now faded with age. And then at the data-feeds flickering around him—images of a galaxy at war, of madness, of an Empire in decay.

"...What... has become of my father's dream?"

The silence that followed was answer enough.