Roboute Guilliman was dreaming.
He had not dreamed in many years, especially not a dream as vivid and real as the one he was experiencing now...
He lay in bed with his brow tightly furrowed, covered by a blanket bearing the emblem of Macragge. Not far from the bed stood a desk piled with several stacks of farm tool designs he had drawn himself. Two jars of newly improved crop seeds sat on the right side of the desk, weighing down a bundle of recently harvested wheat.
This room belonged to him. He had lived here for over four years, devoting himself to environmental restoration and agriculture. It had been a very, very long time since he had donned armor or held a shortsword.
Before today, war had briefly departed from the mind and body of this man who had never wished to make a living through slaughter.
A few hours earlier, Guilliman had lain down, exhausted but exhilarated, determined to get a good night's sleep before tomorrow's agricultural symposium. He had already prepared his remarks, intending to tell the representatives from every quarter that his achievements could be replicated and then widely implemented.
The thought that so many people would benefit from it filled him with heartfelt joy and satisfaction.
But then, he had a dream.
The dream was simple, uncomplicated, without any baffling mystical metaphors or spine-chilling atmosphere. It was merely a succession of images: the Emperor in golden armor swung His sword and shattered Slaanesh's six rings, then drove that sword into Its heart as raging flames surged around them.
Roboute Guilliman woke with a roar.
His head felt as though it were splitting apart, and sweat covered his entire body. The sheets and thin blanket had been soaked through. The first thing he did upon waking