In a daze, Hill saw countless changes.
Those changes were like a shattered mirror, countless fragments spinning, turning, and fitting together around him, each reflecting an entirely different scene.
His consciousness was swept into that vortex, and he could not tell whether he was falling or rising.
Images flooded his mind like a tide, too quickly for him to make out the details of each scene, yet their meaning seared itself deep into his consciousness.
Hill saw another possibility. In that timeline, Lady Euten and King Konor had died in the rebellion.
Their bodies were dragged into the square in Macragge City for public display, their heads hung from the shattered gates, exposed to the wind and rain.
The young Guilliman walked through that empty city, passing along silent streets and stepping over wreckage, watching the home that had once been his turn into a desolate graveyard.
The fires had died, leaving only ashes and lingering warmth, like the anger cooling within his chest.
He knelt and buried his parents' bodies with his own hands. From that day onward, the gentle light he had been born with never returned to his eyes.
In its place was a blue as dark as an abyss, like stagnant water beneath a sheet of ice.
They were no longer the Ultramarines, but the Sons of War, born for war alone.
Guilliman fell into the Warp, sacrificing five hundred worlds in exchange for an entire army of daemons.
Countless planets went dark one after another, like burning sheets of paper, and countless souls turned to ash amid silent screams, becoming the currency of that bargain.
Guilliman passed through rifts in the Warp, walked corridors built from bones and screams, and spoke with beings whose very names should never have been remembered.
When he returned, he