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Chapter Text

"In the name of the Emperor!"

"For the Imperium!"

All around Roboute Guilliman, battle rages across his flagship, the Macragge's Honor. Droves of vile daemons spew forth from the fabric of the Warp, clinging to the decks like carrion to a corpse. Bolter shots, grenades, and flames streak through the air as his sons fight valiantly against their unending foes.

Another ambush. Over a century into the Indomitus Crusade, the Chaos Gods’ persistent schemes have become tiresome, too frequent to surprise him anymore. Those insidious entities will stop at nothing to halt humanity's march.

But they will not succeed. Roboute swears it. As long as he draws breath, as long as one of his hearts still beats—the Imperium will never fall to their treachery.

Still, it is vexing to have his fleet be delayed for the umpteenth time. Worlds burn while they linger in the Warp. Retreat must take priority.

"Prepare to concentrate fire on my position," Roboute speaks into his helm's vox-caster.

There is a faint crackling on the other end, before Cato Sicarius responds, aghast, "What, M'lord?"

A faint amusement touches Roboute's lips. He repeats, "You heard me. Prepare to concentrate fire on my position. Have the men regroup while I attract enemy attention."

Before his son can protest, Roboute is already striding ahead, leaving behind his likely-frantic and furious Victrix Guard. The Emperor's Sword blazes in his hand with the light of a thousand stars.

Immediately, the nearby daemons turn their attention to him. These few split-seconds of distraction are enough for his sons to safely pull back and start forming ranks. All according to plan.

A daemon screeches and lunges at him. He sidesteps its swipe and drives his power fist through its skull, shattering horns and bones. He hefts the Emperor's Sword and bisects it cleanly, igniting it in golden flames and killing it for good.

The rest of his foes do not falter.

They charge.

Roboute welcomes them. With each step he takes, swathes of Warp-spawn find their eternal damnation at his hands and the Emperor's Sword. If they actually left behind corpses, a mountain would be steadily forming on the decks.

By the time he breaks through to the frontlines, hundreds of daemons have converged upon him. Some swoop down from the air, only to be blasted apart by his sons' supporting fire. Others rush him head-on and are cut down in flashes of fire and light. A few brave ones strike from behind, but their skulls burst beneath his gauntlet before their blows can land.

"Captain," Roboute grunts, elbowing one daemon into mush and skewering another with the Emperor's Sword. "Are the men and weapon systems ready?"

Cato curses something incomprehensible beneath his breath before answering, "Yes, M'lord."

"Then fire at will."

Gunfire descends upon the battlefield, ripping and howling through the air. Daemons fall by the hundreds, screeching and dispersing into plumes of smoke, fire, and filth. All the while, Roboute twists and turns through the chaos, striking down what daemons remain or come too close.

Within minutes, victory nears. His plan has succeeded.

Roboute stands alone on the damaged decks.

Footsteps clang behind him as Cato and the rest of the Victrix Guard approaches.

"Any damages to the fleet?" Roboute calls over his shoulder.

Cato stops at his side and answers, "Nothing major, M'lord."

Roboute nods and exhales, quietly relieved. "Have the fleet prepare to exit the Warp."

Then—his helm's readouts blur into static. Auto-senses flicker. Vox channels fail.

Roboute freezes.

His grip tightens on the Emperor's Sword.

The air ripples.

The Warp constricts.

Gazes, ancient and mocking, press upon him.

The Emperor's Sword flares a blinding warning, but its golden rays are swallowed by encroaching shadows.

A force—many wills working together—yanks him off his feet and away from his sons.

Roboute's hand cleaves grooves into the deck as he is furiously wrenched off his ship. Its shields and gravity systems are rendered useless by invisible powers.

New daemons emerge and swarm him again.

But they aren't fighting to kill.

They are fighting to hold him—restrain him.

Hands, fangs, and claws sink into the greebles of his armor. Scratching. Tugging. Pulling.

"M'lord!"

"Father!"

His sons are shouting and screaming, rushing to the edge of the decks. Their arms are outstretched in a desperate bid to grab him.

But Roboute cannot reach back.

One of his arms still wields the Emperor’s Sword, carving through the daemons in arcs of golden light, while the other has been seized and bitten by a bulky daemon. He cuts it down, but two more take its place. Then, his other side is being mobbed and overwhelmed, buried beneath claws and fangs.

He is dragged ever farther from his ship—towards a jagged wound in the Warp, where space folds and fractures like a kaleidoscope.

Even without any psychic talent, Roboute knows the rift is unnatural and dangerous, far too dangerous—an open sore in reality.

He realizes too late, always too late—what Chaos' goal truly is. Not to distract or delay him and his fleet. Or even to kill.

No, their goal is much worse—to separate him from the Imperium. Just as they did when he was still a babe in his pod, stolen from the Emperor's lab, and, later, when Fulgrim's poisoned blade doomed him to ten thousand years of stasis.

History is repeating.

Some of his brave, foolish sons are already flinging themselves off the Macragge's Honor to rescue him. Their brothers behind them add their fury to the effort, unleashing a storm of supporting fire that scours the hordes of Chaos. His sons recklessly fight and stumble their way to him.

But the moment they come within arm's reach, Roboute stops fighting. Completely. 

The rift is swiftly approaching. Chaos' target is him.

He summons every ounce of his considerable strength, seizes his sons by their power armor—and hurls them back towards the decks of his flagship.

The rift looms now.

The daemons' grips have changed. Where they once pulled, they now push him onward one final time with the full weight of their combined might. They've let go of him.

But any resistance becomes futile as an unseen, unyielding force takes lead and begins pulling him into the rift.

As he crosses its threshold, Roboute swears he can feel a strange counter-force brush past, one that is pushing outward from the rift but isn't directed at him.

Then, he's falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Falling.

Colors streak and twist around him in nauseating patterns. Thoughts not his own sink their blades into him, scraping at the marrow and reason of his mind. He squeezes his eyes shut as his sons' heart-wrenching shrieks fade into empty silence.

Weightlessness.

A flicker of fear—where will he emerge from the Warp? When? What will happen to the Imperium in his absence?

Resignation. There is nothing he can predict or control right now; he is not Konrad or Sanguinius.

Determination follows. No matter what situation he finds himself in, he will endure. He will adapt. He always has.

Then—sensation.

Air floods his lungs.

His knees buckle.

Solid ground.

But where?

Roboute opens his eyes and glances around warily, noting his surroundings.

First theoretical: The Warp is rapidly closing behind him.

Second theoretical: He stands aboard the Macragge's Honor once more, surrounded by his sons.

Third theoretical: Marius Gage stands before him.

Practical—

Roboute pivots and hurls the Emperor's Sword into the narrowing Warp rift. May it find its way back onto his flagship and remain useful to the Imperium.

Turning back around, he is met by the helms of his sons, their weapons raised and aimed at him.

"State your identity," Marius demands gruffly, but Roboute can hear the slight hitch in his speech. He is confused—but must know instinctively that Roboute is not the primarch, not the father, he knows.

Roboute's chest tightens with unearthed grief and fondness. Marius is just as smart and discerning as he remembers him—ten thousand years ago.

Silently, he steps forward and gently brushes aside his sons' drawn weapons.

"Don't move!"

His sons collectively retreat from him, tense and uncertain. But they've always been so small compared to him. Their three scrambling steps barely match his one.

Roboute reaches out.

Grabs Marius by the shoulders.

And pulls him close—against his chest.

More of his sons are quickly drawn into his tight embrace, even as they struggle and try to scramble away.

Is this truly Marius? Are any of these men his sons? Or is this merely an illusion? Another cruel tool of the Chaos Gods, designed to shatter his will and mold him to theirs?

But none of those questions matter. Or even register.

Not now.

Not when his sons, long lost to him by the cruelties of time and war, are cradled by his arms.

Not when they are warm and solid.

Not when they are here.

For what feels like the first time in years, Roboute cries. Tears freely run down his cheeks beneath his helm. His massive hands tremble against the ceramite plates of his sons' power armor. When he speaks, his voice is broken and wet.

"You're alive."

Chapter Text

Roboute remembers the day he first woke up from his stasis—before the Indomitus Crusade, over a century ago.

He remembers the horror that sank deep into his chest when he learned of the Imperium’s ruinous state, which he masked with a stately smile as he coaxed answers from strangers.

Worse still, he remembers the date:

999.M41 — the forty-first millennium, teetering on the edge of the forty-second. Ten thousand years since his battle against Fulgrim—since his death.

In that moment, he looked at the sons around him and understood why he didn't recognize any of them.

Roboute didn't cry that first night—not because he couldn't, but because he was never alone. Strangers—sons he didn't know, prostrating servants, priests—followed him everywhere.

So he cried three nights later. When the strangers were no longer hovering behind him. When he was finally alone in his bedroom, which was perfectly—unnervingly—preserved since he last dwelled in it.

He cried until his primarch lungs heaved with hiccups and his twin hearts stuttered beneath the weight of lost millennia. He cried with all the passion of a child begging for his familiar toys to be returned.

He cried for his father and their unrealized dream for Mankind. For his brothers, loyalists and traitors alike. For his lost sons—until exhaustion claimed him.

That night, Roboute dreamed an impossibility.

He dreamed of a golden, prosperous Imperium that no longer relied on Warp travel and knew only peace. He dreamed of sitting at a table with his father and all nineteen of his brothers, laughing without suspicion and sharing meals like a proper family. He dreamed of owning a simple farm and toiling in its fields until his hands were dirtied and his muscles ached. He dreamed of his many sons bragging about their own farms or how they just became planetary governors, all living a life beyond war.

When the next morning came, his eyes were already healed, along with every other evidence of his grief.

But the memory of that dream endured—alongside the cruel truth that it would never be, and the Imperium still had need of him.

At first, Roboute believes he's dreaming again—or trapped within some illusion. But he can't bring himself to look away. This is what he's missed since being revived—seeing his sons whole, proud, and alive.

Even if this is false, even if this is some cruel illusion staged by Chaos that he must soon shatter—it’s beautiful.

His throat locks. His vision swims. Tears continue to fall.

He laughs—a small, distraught sound.

"Father!" His sons still struggle and try to escape his arms, pushing and smacking at him without any real power.

But Roboute only hugs them tighter, half-expecting them to finally fade through his fingers, but they do not. Their armor is warm beneath his hands. Their hearts beat against his palms. All around them, the Macragge's Honor hums—a living fortress of plasteel and adamantium—its air systems cycling fresh oxygen and engines continuously running in the background.

His hearts swell with something dangerously close to joy—pure, vivid, forbidden. He lets it bloom for a heartbeat. Two. Three.

Is this truly an illusion?

It can’t be. It feels too real. No daemon trick can replicate the life pulsing through his sons—or the bone-deep connection that hums between them and him.

For a moment, Roboute almost believes this could be the past—the life he lost ten thousand years ago.

But no. His reason reasserts itself. That conclusion is naive and wrong.

This is not the past.

This cannot be the past.

The Chaos Gods would never jeopardize their own power and survival by gifting him the chance to undo countless tragedies. This can only be an opportunity for them.

So where has he been cast?

Suddenly, Roboute recalls an old conversation with Magnus—about the Milky Way, the mysteries of their universe, and what might lie beyond.

The answer to his predicament takes shape.

This is an alternate universe. Another timeline. One ten thousand years behind his own.

Dazed, Roboute looks down at the sons still caught in his arms. Now that he's looking closely, he can see the slight differences in their armor—sigils slightly off, their blue a shade too light.

His gaze settles on Marius. Even through the changed helm and visor, he knows that face.

This is Marius, his loyal son. Marius, his second-in-command. Marius, whose eyes are green.

Roboute's breath catches in his throat.

Marius' eyes should be blue.

It's more cruel evidence that this is not an illusion or the past.

This Marius simply...is not his son.

None of these men are his sons.

For the second time in his life, Roboute has lost his sons—the ones he knows and loves, the ones who idolize and try to impress him at every turn, the ones who shyly present him gifts every Imperial Parent's Day.

They are gone. Again.

Roboute cries. Again.

The Chaos Gods have succeeded. They have torn him wholly from the—his Imperium, cast him out to a place he can never return from.

And even if he can—even if he finds the path through the Warp and back to his own galaxy—how many centuries—millennia—will have passed by then? Will his Imperium still stand?

Perhaps this is his curse—to awaken in one changed Imperium after another. Each a twisted mirror of the last. To see his sons alive, only to lose them again. To rebuild, to fail, to rebuild again. All at the sadistic designs of Chaos.

But they will find his will unbroken.

If this is to be his punishment for opposing them, he will carry no regrets and will endure it until the stars burn out. As he has with every other of their schemes.

Only in death does duty end.

If luck will bless him, he will find a way back to his Imperium. He will not lose hope until certainty looks him in the eyes and proclaims otherwise. And if return is impossible, he will make do with what he finds in this new galaxy.

Right now, he needs information. To survive. To plan.

Straightening, Roboute reluctantly unwinds his arms from his—no, not his—sons. They waste no time scurrying away, but they don't raise their bolters at him again.

Removing his helm, he starts to speak, "Marius—"

"Who are you?" Marius interrupts, shoulders pulled back as he stares up at Roboute. "You are not our father. You cannot be."

Marius sounds so befuddled yet serious, that Roboute quickly makes a guess: "Your father—was he dragged through a Warp rift, torn away by strange powers?"

Marius' eyes narrow. His gauntlet shifts down to his bolter. “How do you know that?”

Roboute exhales slowly, relief and dread mingling in equal measure.

So it is true. The Ruinous Powers have stolen his counterpart, just as they have banished him here. Perhaps there are some modicum of rules or laws of reality even they must follow, or else they'd have employed this trick years ago. This act must have weakened them. That alone may buy his Imperium precious time.

Forcing calm and control into his voice, Roboute states, “I was dragged through the same rift as your father. Moments ago, I stood in my own era—the forty-second millennium. I have been...displaced here.”

The Astartes on the deck exchange glances, disbelief rippling through the ranks.

“The forty–second millennium?” One of them mutters.

Another whispers back, "That's ten thousand years from now!"

“Enough.” Roboute’s voice cuts through the air like a blade.

The decks fall silent. Even though these men are not his sons, they all instinctively obey him; there must be few differences between him and their father.

“I am Roboute Guilliman. Lord of Ultramar. The XIIIth Primarch," Roboute declares. "By the Warp’s cruelty, your father and I have exchanged places.”

Marius' hand eases off his bolter. "If what you say is true, then...our father is in your universe. Will he be safe there?"

Roboute's hearts squeeze at the question, sorrowful and ashamed of the answer.

How can he tell these Ultramarines, all loyal sons, of the horrors their father will find and face in the 42nd Millennium? Furthermore, how can he so much as mention the very plausible possibility that their father might never return—that he might die before this displacement can be undone?

But he cannot lie to these men, so he tells them the truth, "No, he will not be safe. My galaxy harbors dangers yours does not." Then, to reassure them, he adds, "But my sons and father will protect him."

Roboute's sons, just like the ones standing before him, are all brave and dutiful; he has no doubt they will protect this other Guilliman without complaint. And his father—what's left of him on the Golden Throne—may not be the most loving but is the most practical; he will join the endeavor, if only to use the primarch to fulfill his goals for the Imperium.

Thankfully, Marius and the rest of the Ultramarines appear comforted by his words. Perhaps they can't imagine his galaxy being astronomically more dangerous than theirs. A selfish part of him wants them to stay this unaware, but no. That will be wrong; he will provide them more information later, once he's made a plan.

"Marius," Roboute fears the answer, but he nonetheless asks, "What is the date?"

Marius instantly understands his reason for query and replies, "953.M30."

Roboute exhales slowly through his nose.

Fifty-two years before the Heresy.

Horus is not yet Warmaster. All his brothers—the primarchs remain loyal. The Imperium is still standing strong and illustrious.

But most importantly—

“My Emperor,” he murmurs softly, “you yet walk among men.”

Around him, the Ultramarines jolt at his words, minds reeling from the implications.

Marius frowns. "Sir—"

But Roboute raises a placating hand and orders, "Take me to the Strategium. We must plot a course for Terra at once. Any questions you have, I will answer later."

Marius hesitates briefly before nodding. "Aye, M'lord." With a stern glance, he sends his brothers aside, bringing calm to the decks and clearing a pathway for them to take.

As Marius walks, Roboute follows. A few additional Ultramarines accompany them.

The layout of this ship, another version of the Macragge's Honor, is barely different from his own—some halls longer and a few rooms shifted. It's uncanny. If he didn't pay attention, he could easily mistake it as his.

But the differences he does find are unmistakable: sons he has not seen in millennia walk these halls, and there are no murals or shrines dedicated to his father. The walls are clean, banners of blue and gold hang, and the sound of machines fill the air—not prayers.

It is nostalgic yet bittersweet—everything Roboute once knew and fought for, but not truly his. Once again, he is reminded that this is not his universe.

All too soon, they reach the Strategium.

The chamber doors hiss open and all the officers inside fall deathly silent, turning to face them—to face him.

Roboute can see it in their eyes—they recognize the sigils on his armor, his stature, and his face. But they all know the truth. His sons must have spread it across the vox-channels the moment he confirmed his identity as a foreigner to their universe. Half of the entire legion must already know he appeared right after their true primarch and father disappeared.

"At ease," Roboute commands with a wave of his arm.

They obey—somewhat uncertain. This situation must be as harrowing and eerie for them as it is for him.

He approaches the central hololithic projector and enters his code to activate it—it's the same date he was found and adopted by Konor Guilliman. Even in this new universe, it seems some things are still the same.

With a few gestures, the galaxy blooms before him.

For a moment, he stares.

The Astronomican burns radiantly at the heart of the galaxy, reaching every corner of the Imperium. In the Ultima Segmentum, bordering the Eastern Fringes, lies the Realm of Ultramar, all five hundred worlds flourishing and gleaming.

Most astonishingly, the Great Rift is gone. Not yet created. Only the Eye of Terror dwells in its place, much smaller and far less dangerous.

For the first time in ten thousand years, Roboute beholds an Imperium whole and untainted. This is what he built with his father, brothers, and sons. This is what Chaos destroyed—what he failed to protect.

His eyes linger a moment longer, drinking in this long-lost sight.

Then, his hearts steady, and his mind returns to order.

“Navigator Primaris,” Roboute commands at last, his voice carrying the weight of absolute authority. “What is our current Warp forecast along the Sol route?”

A robed Navigator steps forward, his single exposed eye glimmering faintly beneath the lights. Roboute vaguely recognizes him—or rather, the younger version of a man long dead in his own universe.

“Clear, my lord,” the Navigator reports. “No major disturbances. Warp tides are...stable.”

Stable. The word feels alien to him.

Roboute breathes deeply. "Estimated travel time?"

"If conditions hold—two months, Lord Guilliman."

Two months. Not years. Not impossible.

For a brief second, Roboute almost feels blessed.

Then a familiar wariness returns.

Chaos.

No matter how this universe differs from his own, it surely has its own Ruinous Powers—though weaker, not yet strengthened by the victories of the Heresy and Fall of Cadia. Soon, they will feel the ripples of his arrival, if they haven't already, and their gazes will fall upon him. Once they understand what has changed—who has changed—they will not allow him to reach Terra—to reach the Emperor.

“We must make haste,” Roboute mutters, then raises his voice. "Prepare the legion for travel. We head for Terra immediately. Defensive formation—priority to the Macragge's Honor."

The Strategium stirs, hesitant but obedient. Officers salute and scatter to relay orders. He can feel their unease in the air—half awe, half disbelief. To them, he is a stranger commanding them with their primarch's face and grace, so similar yet not the man they know.

"All astropathic contact is to be restricted," Roboute continues. "No transmissions beyond local vox-range. This incident does not leave the XIIIth Legion."

At his flank, Marius wavers before speaking up, "But, M'lord...our standing orders? We were to rendezvous with the Blood Angels for a joint campaign."

Roboute sucks in a breath.

Sanguinius. He's alive. All of them are.

Logically, he's known this ever since confirming his location. But now the knowledge hurts—now it feels real.

His hearts ache with longing.

The Blood Angels are nearby, not yet afflicted by the Black Rage. Sanguinius is nearby.

Roboute can see him again. Speak with him. Embrace him once more.

No. Not yet.

He exhales and steadies himself. "Encrypt a message to the IXth Legion. Inform them we are unable to participate due to..." He pauses, searching for a credible reason to excuse his legion's absence. Then, an idea strikes him. "I, Roboute Guilliman, have been injured. I am injured—gravely. We are heading to Terra for medical restoration."

Marius and the surrounding officers blanch at his words. At no point in the Great Crusade has the XIIIth Legion ever refused an order or lost a battle—nor has Roboute ever sustained grievous enough injuries to warrant a trip to Terra, of all places.

And that is precisely the point.

When Sanguinius receives the news of Roboute's 'injuries', he will follow them to Terra after the campaign. He might even share the news with some of the other primarchs, potentially drawing even more of them to Terra.

After Roboute has spoken with the Emperor—the living, whole Emperor—sharing plans and knowledge with the primarchs will be necessary.

With his final orders given, the officers in the Strategium all look away to focus on their tasks. The sounds of shuffling, typing, and speaking fill the chamber.

Turning to Marius, Roboute asks, "How long until the fleet is ready?"

"An hour at most, Father," Marius says—then freezes.

Roboute does not correct him, only nods and sends him away.

Once he is alone at the holo-projector, he allows the tension to leave his shoulders as he wonders—if only that title could be true. If only his Marius, his son, was still with him.

His weary gaze sweeps across the star map, lingering on the shining Sol System. Terra. The heart of the Imperium. So beautiful in this day and age.

If luck will have him, he'll be in its skies in two months. He'll stand before the Emperor—in two short months.

What will Roboute tell him? What can he tell without hastening betrayals or sparking new tragedies? That their shared dream died? That half of the Emperor's precious sons and tools fell to Chaos? That his favorite son led the charge against the Imperium?

No. Roboute cannot tell the Emperor everything—not yet. He must be careful with his words. He has two months to rehearse them.

Sighing, he tears his eyes away from Terra.

The Imperium shimmering before him on the hololith is beautiful and bitter enough to blind. It stands at the height of the Great Crusade, uncorrupted by Chaos or religion. It is everything he failed to recreate after the Scouring and his revival.

It must be preserved.

Be it for some dubious notion of love and loyalty. For some wan chance at redemption and healing. Or for the man whose place he's stolen.

Regardless of the reason, Roboute swears this oath: for as long as he is here, he will defend this galaxy—this new Imperium—as if it is his own. He hopes his counterpart—that other Guilliman—will do the same.

Chapter Text

It has been seven standard days since Marius Gage watched his father vanish into a Warp rift.

Seven days since another Roboute Guilliman took his place—one who claims to hail from another universe.

Disturbingly, little has changed aboard the Macragge’s Honor or within the XIIIth Legion.

This new Guilliman looks like their father, speaks like him, commands like him—and yet every motion, every pause, feels wrong.

Whenever Marius delivers his reports, he often finds Lord Guilliman deep in silent contemplation, teeth clenched and shoulders stiffened.

He constantly pores over archived records and keeps a vigilant eye on the Warp's conditions. Not once has he been seen resting, though their father’s chambers stand open to him.

Once, in the Strategium, Marius saw Lord Guilliman perusing the holo-projector alone, staring at scans of the fleet's composition. Moments later, he looked to his side and opened his mouth to speak—only to find empty air. Then he blinked, straightened, and turned back to the holo-projector. No one else noticed. But Marius did.

That incident, coupled with the numerous times he and his brothers have caught the primarch staring at them, convinces Marius he did not lie about living in the forty-second millennium.

In his universe, Marius and his brothers must all be dead. They are mere ghosts to him.

This is not a surprise. Death is expected; war is the essence of their being.

Yet seeing Lord Guilliman gives that truth a cruel new shape.

Their father will outlive them all.

And despite all the centuries he's lived, Marius finds himself...saddened by the thought.

Their father—the same man who insists on teaching them statecraft and agriculture, who has promised them all peaceful lives in Ultramar after the Great Crusade—does not deserve that fate. Knowing him and now Lord Guilliman, he will mourn them—and all his future sons—forever.

The next few nights, sleep eludes Marius. It is difficult to keep his mind off the thought of his father one day bearing the same burden as Lord Guilliman—grief.

Eventually, one day in the Strategium, the primarch takes notice of his sleeplessness.

"Marius," Lord Guilliman asks softly, "have you been unwell?"

Marius blinks and pauses mid-report, not expecting the question. He doesn't want to burden his father—any version of him— with his problems, but he knows lying to a primarch is an act of folly.

"I have been....experiencing bouts of insomnia these past few nights, M'lord," Marius confesses. "Nothing of import."

For a moment, Lord Guilliman regards him—an emotion Marius cannot name, heavy and unspoken, flickering behind his eyes. Then, he smiles gently and says, "Marius, you may rest for additional hours if you wish. I understand the...disappearance of your father has been difficult."

Marius wants to refuse—the legion cannot afford leniency, not now—but the look on the primarch’s face leaves no room for argument.

“I will…take the reprieve, M'lord,” he concedes.

Lord Guilliman nods once, expression unreadable. “Good. Pass the same to your brothers. Do not burn yourselves out; rest breeds clarity, and clarity wins wars.”

Marius hesitates, then inclines his head. “As you will it, M'lord."

He turns to leave and climbs up the steps to the first level of the Strategium. By then, the primarch has turned his attention to other officers.

As he reaches the doors, Navigator Primaris Valen suddenly hobbles toward him—an irregularity; he should be in the Navis Sanctum.

"Master Primus," Valen greets with a bow. 

"Aye," Marius replies, halting despite his weariness. He waits.

The man hesitates—a strange sight from one who has guided the XIIIth Legion through the Warp for decades.

"What is it?" Marius asks, raising an eyebrow. "Have the Warp tides changed against us?"

Valen shakes his head slowly. "Not precisely."

Intrigued, Marius gestures for him to continue.

"There have been some fluctuations detected," the Navigator explains, smoothing out his robes. "But before my subordinates and I can circumvent them—they disappear. As if being pushed back."

Beneath his mask, Valen's single eye flicks over to Lord Guilliman, who remains unaware. A deliberate, calculating look shines in his eye.

"You suspect he has something to do with it," Marius surmises.

"I do," Valen confirms, stern and certain. "He is the only variable aboard." He turns back to face Marius. "You must have noticed what I have: the presence he exudes. Even a blind fool without any psychic talent can feel it."

Marius falls silent.

He has indeed noticed it—rarely. When he glances at Lord Guilliman at just the right time and angle, the Iron Halo behind his head will glow. Other times, just standing near him is enough to make Marius' skin crawl, as if being submerged in cool water.

All primarchs are unnatural and uncanny, too perfect for most to look at. But Lord Guilliman is even more so.

If Marius dares, he might even compare his aura to the Emperor's—though only a fraction of it.

It makes him wonder—why?

Was he created with a psychic gift? Perhaps. He is from an alternate universe—ten thousand years ahead. Differences are inevitable.

But if so, why did Lord Guilliman refine this ability? For convenient travel? To combat a threat not yet present in Marius' galaxy, ones he eluded to before? Are warp storms more violent in his time?

Is there no deviation? Has Marius’ father simply not awakened his psychic potential?

The uncertainty gnaws at him.

Then, he remembers—Lord Guilliman swore to answer all of his questions.

Plan made, Marius nods to Valen. "I will present questions to Lord Guilliman in five hours' time."

Valen furrows his brow. "Why not now?"

"Lord Guilliman has ordered that I rest," Marius answers bluntly, still mildly peeved, though he knows disobeying will earn him a disappointed look. "And he will be in his office by that time."

The Navigator stares at him oddly, then nods and shambles away, returning to his duties.

Finally, Marius exits the Strategium and heads for his captain's quarters.

As he passes his brothers in the halls, they salute him casually—but he can tell they are still unnerved by the addition of Lord Guilliman and the loss of their father. Most in the legion are only glad there's no power vacuum to fill.

Returning their salutes, Marius waves several of his brothers over.

He informs them, "Lord Guilliman has ordered every Ultramarine to acquire adequate rest. You will receive extra hours to do so. Spread the word to all our brothers."

"Aye, brother," they all respond, unsurprised by the order. Their true father has done this to them before; in its own way, this is comforting.

With that, Marius returns on his path to his quarters.

Minutes later, he reaches it and steps inside, locking the door behind him.

He carefully removes his power armor with the help of servitors and sets it aside on a stand beside his bed. After stripping down to his underclothes, he pulls on one of the many togas his father has gifted him over the years.

Then, he lies in bed, muscles tense beneath the sheets, and waits for an elusive sleep to take him.

Marius wonders if he'll see his father in his dreams.

The thought circles endlessly in his mind.

Until exhaustion finally claims him.

"Father!"

Marius is screaming.

His brothers are screaming.

Their father is suspended in the air—off the ship. In the Warp. Too close to a rift.

Grapnels shoot out, lines snapping taut as their father catches them.

On the other end, Marius and his brothers pull with all their might.

But the mysterious force seizing their father only grows stronger—hungrier.

“Hold!” Marius roars—to himself, to his brothers, to his father.

Servos screech in his armor as he braces against the deck, boots carving deep furrows into the metal.

Static shrieks in his helm. His brothers’ voices overlap—echoing, warping—until he can no longer tell who is shouting what.

Their father edges closer to the breach. His legs are swallowed, splitting and reforming, as if the Warp is pulling him apart at the seams.

Their father glances between the rift and the grapnels in his hands. His expression shifts—then hardens.

He looks up.

"My sons! Live on!"

Then—he lets go.

The cables snap back, coiling like dying serpents.

Marius and his brothers fall.

Alarms wail, then fade—then rise again, out of sync.

He pushes himself up, but his arms are heavy and slow.

The rift is closing.

"No!"

"Father!"

"We have to find him—!"

Voices ring in his ears—distorted and distant.

Marius can’t look away from the empty air.

Slowly—methodically—the rift seals shut, like an eye closing for the final time.

His father is gone.

His father is gone.

A soft chime.

His chronometer.

Marius opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling of his quarters.

His hearts pound in his chest, and his hands are open, reaching out for what he failed to hold all those days ago.

Exhaling, he turns to his desk and checks the time.

Four hours of rest—standard for an Astartes.

He rises out of bed and stretches, rolling his shoulders and forcing the stiffness from his limbs. Every motion is practiced and deliberate.

Then, in silence, he dons his armor piece by piece.

The sound of mag-locks and servos fills the room, echoing softly against the metal walls. When the last seal clicks shut, he straightens.

It is time to meet Lord Guilliman.

Marius leaves his quarters.

His steps echo down the corridor, a steady, unbroken rhythm. Overhead, the ship's light systems have dimmed to mimic dusk, reflecting across his armor. Occasionally, he passes by and greets some of his brothers on-duty.

Soon, he reaches his father's solar.

He knocks.

"Come in."

When Marius steps inside, he is greeted by an all-too-familiar sight.

His father sits behind his desk, eyes running over screens of data while his hands fill out piles of paperwork. A tall cup of recaf sits half-full beside him, no steam rising past its rim. His armor is gone, replaced by a comfortable toga and tunic.

Then, the illusion breaks.

The hair brushing the primarch's forehead is too short, and when he looks up, his eyes carry a bone-deep weariness.

"Marius." Not son.

Lord Guilliman smiles faintly and gestures him close.

Marius' two hearts strangely ache.

Steeling himself, he takes a seat in the well-worn chair across from his...not-father.

"Lord Guilliman," Marius says quietly, "I wish to...inquire about your universe."

The primarch raises an eyebrow but nods, sliding his paperwork aside. "Of course. I agreed to give you answers."

Marius measures his words carefully. "Are there...significant differences between your universe’s Warp and ours?"

Lord Guilliman's brow creases. "There are. My Warp is...far more unruly."

"Should the Imperium prepare?" Marius asks. If the Warp will worsen over the next ten thousand years, such knowledge can save countless worlds.

"Yes," Lord Guilliman says firmly. He grabs a nearby dataslate, unlocks it, and hands it over to Marius.

Inside are countless files. Marius expects notes—alternate methods of travel, new ways to stabilize the Warp, or perhaps strategies for circumventing storms.

Instead, he finds battle plans. Formations. Training exercises. Weapon schematics.

Marius looks up.

Lord Guilliman's expression is dark and indecipherable.

"Are the changes to your Warp unnatural?" Marius finally asks.

The primarch’s gaze hardens. “Yes. Unnatural—and deliberate.” He leans back, fingers steepled, his voice lowering. "There is...a species of psykers who dwell within the Warp. They are intelligent—advanced. They seek to broaden the Warp's reach. To them, the Imperium is...an opportunity."

“They dwell inside the Warp?” Marius asks, disbelief creeping into his voice. How can any species do that? Did they evolve specifically for it?

"They thrive," Lord Guilliman confirms. "But their time there has changed them. They are not as...solid as you and I—it makes them dangerous foes. My Imperium has fought them for millenia, just to push them back."

Marius struggles to digest these shocking revelations. The thought that a single species can destabilize and expand the Warp at will is staggering. And if Lord Guilliman's universe is any indication, the Imperium will be unable to defeat them.

Ah.

This must be why Lord Guilliman uses his psychic might to calm the Warp—to keep those psykers at bay, to shield the Imperium. It must be an instinctive, ingrained part of him now since he's fought them for so long.

"When will these psykers become active?" Marius asks.

Lord Guilliman grimaces, a faraway look in his eyes. "Soon. If your galaxy follows a similar timeline to mine—less than a century."

Marius sits up in his chair. His eyes flick down to the dataslate in his hands, tightening his grip. All the information compiled in it is now precious beyond belief.

“Implement reforms to the legion's military doctrine,” Lord Guilliman orders, his tone suddenly more measured. “Quietly. Let no word of this spread beyond the officers I’ve listed.”

"Yes, M'lord," Marius says, then hesitates. "But should we not wait until we reach Terra and these reforms are passed to all the legions?"

The primarch shakes his head. "No—it will be too late by then. The enemy is...capable of foresight. They will soon notice my presence. The legion must prepare for their intervention."

Marius frowns.

This new enemy is incredibly dangerous and cunning. Now, it makes sense why Lord Guilliman insisted on sailing for Terra and the Emperor so quickly after his arrival; he is trying to protect the Imperium from threats only he knows.

Marius bows his head. “I will implement the reforms immediately. I will not let you down, M'lord.”

The primarch’s expression softens almost imperceptibly. “I know, Marius. You never did.”

The words strike deep.

For a moment, Marius almost believes his father is the one looking at him and praising him—gentle, proud, and loving.

But the words are past tense.

This is not his father.

Nor is Marius the son Lord Guilliman mourns.

His throat tightens without warning. It has only happened twice before—the day he first met his genefather, and the day he lost him.

Marius rises stiffly from his chair, clutching the dataslate.

"Will that be all, M'lord?"

"Yes. Thank you, Marius."

The words are steady, final.

Marius bows and turns to leave.

As he reaches the door, he hesitates—just for a moment—and looks back. He doesn't know why.

By now, Lord Guilliman has returned to his work, his movements firm and experienced.

For an instant, it's as if his father is still here. On the Macragge's Honor. Safe and sound.

It is irrational, almost childish. But Marius allows himself to believe the lie—lets the ache in his chest be soothed.

Then, he leaves in silence.

He must prepare the XIIIth Legion for what lies ahead.

In the Navis Sanctum, Navigator Primaris Valen keeps a close watch on the Warp, where calm reigns unnaturally so, heavy yet fragile. The fleet drifts within a vast sphere of peace, a sanctuary of impossible stability—a gift from their new primarch.

For nearly two weeks, this serenity has endured.

Then, the sea churns.

A wave rises from the abyss, immense and violent. Another joins it, the two coiling together before slamming against the edge of the calm. The Warp howls, its colors bleeding and distorting.

Light flares—golden, radiant, alive. It meets the surge and forces it back.

But this time, the tranquility shudders.

Valen feels the strain echo through his mind, like a voice struggling to be heard over a thousand others.

The pressure lingers for a moment, then fades.

The peace holds.

For now.